Mustang's ROSE
by Rojas Walrus
Summary: FINAL CHAPTER. The story completes in an epic scene of politics and war.
1. Two Months Post Calamity

**Author's Introduction**

**So, I've had this I've had this idea floating around in my head for a good long time, but I've been worried about putting it out. I have virtually no experience with Anything Multi-Chapter, so, as usual, I'm just going to dive in. Thus, any advice would be appreciated, and any Criticism (I don't really give a fuck if you're polite or not about it) would be EXTREMELY appreciated. Multi Chap writing is very different from one-shot writing, so this is indeed very new to me. I'm putting a lot of effort in this, and I really want it to turn out good.**

**Disclaimers: 1.) My experience as a military historian is amateur at best, and my knowledge of military proceedings, while perhaps better than most people, is very liable to make someone with that knowledge irritated. If there is anything that you see that makes you go "oh, damn that is so wrong" and/ or cringe, please tell me, and I will do my best to correct said mistakes, or just take it into account in the future. 2.) There is an OC in here that may seem/ is prejudice to an extreme. The views of my character's are not a representation of my own personal beliefs and views, so please don't say things like, "you shouldn't talk about blacks/ Jews/ homosexuals/ Asians/ women like that." That's not me saying it, that's all him. 3.) Seeing as I consider FMA a WWII based story, this takes place in the mid-to-late 40's era. The guns I use, however, will be just a bit of an Anachronism (I'm not saying someone's going to bust out a p90 and rock and roll or anything). The latest I will go to is late 50's early 60's (with an m16) but other than that I will restrain myself. I also did my best to identify the guns that are used in the manga, and believe that I did a damn good job of it.**

"Thank you for coming, Major General. You may be seated."

"Thank you, Councilman. I appreciate your time."

"Noted. Now, let's get to the matter at hand. Brigadier General Heat, you have the stand."

"Thank you, Councilman. Now, as you know, recently there have been various terrorist attacks and assassinations made on Amestrian State Officers, Amestrian State Alchemists, Amestrian State Buildings, and Amestrian State Officials. Now, while the Drachmann Officials have declined any association with the incidents, the Drachmann Royal Family has not made an official statement on the matter. The terrorists, on the other hand, have openly admitted to being directly attached to Drachma. Here is documented proof that the Terrorists are not only Drachmann citizens, but also enlisted members of the Drachmann Military."

"General Heat, the claims you have made in no way link the terrorist cells that have attacked to the Country of Drachma, except by circumstantial evidence. We cannot jump to conclusions so hastily when dealing with matters of international policy. Since no official release had been made by the Royal Family, and all statements made have declined association, we cannot jump onto the war horse so blindly."

"Councilman, General Mustang is a well know anti-war activist. He would have us stand by blind to all that goes on in order for us to stay out of conflict. Our country will fall without even fighting back if you listen to his advice."

"General Heat, my personal conscience direction has no effect on the position I take on this subject matter, and should not be brought up in this hearing at all. The fact of the matter is that _you have no proof_, and for a situation like the one present, your argument holds no water. "

"Truthfully, _General Mustang_, you surprise me. I would have thought, given that one of the victims of the assassinations from Drachma was _your own Lieutenant_, you would be all over the enemy like the attack dog you are."

"Why don't you say that to my face, Gen-"

"Behave yourselves, Generals. This is not the proper time or place to settle personal issues. General Heat, I'm surprised that you would openly insult another officer, especially a superior officer, like that."

"Sorry Councilman. I'll hold my tongue."

"Don't let it happen again."

"I won't, Councilman. So, as I was saying, the evidence shows that the terrorist cells that have made the assaults are in some way linked to the Drachmann Military. My colleague claims that the best course of action is to do nothing and sit and wait because our country is fragile and can't risk another war. I agree with him on one thing: our country is fragile right now. Any country going through the governmental overhaul that we are would be. And Drachma knows this. Our country _is_ weak right now, but the best course of action would be to prepare for war and close the doors to our country save for diplomatic offerings. What we cannot do is enter a war without being able to respond immediately, and the best way for us to do that I to put all troops on ALERT STATUS: BRAVO. "

"The problem with what General Heat suggests is that, as of now, Drachma has declined all relation with the terrorist cells, not even making an effort to reclaim their own soldiers. By increasing the status to BRAVO, it would make Drachma suspicious of our intent and meet our forces with the same caution. This would make our borders a powder keg, set off at the slightest spark.

"As of right now it is foolish to treat Drachma as an enemy. What I suggest is that we simply keep up the status quo with Drachma and work with them to solve this issue. They have expressed interest in seeing the end of these attacks just the same as us."

"Thank you General Mustang. Both yours and General Heat's arguments will be taken into consideration. You are both dismissed."

Master Gunnery Sergeant Kellogg tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for Mustang to arrive at the scene. The Lieutenant in front of him, apparently Mustang's personal aide, was getting irritated with him, and he could tell. Judging by the she held it in, she was clearly adept at keeping stoic mask on, but he could read people like a book. He kept his foot tapping up, trying to goad more of a response from her, but to no avail. Not giving up, he tried a different means of assault.

"Lieutenant, is your son-of-bitch General ever going to get his ass over here, or is he purposefully wasting my goddamned time?" One of the best ways to piss off a Lieutenant, especially a personal aide, was insult the commander, and judging by the flash in her eyes, she was no exception. God, he loved his rank. If he had chosen to be a First Sergeant, admittedly a tempting choice, he would have never been to Sergeant Major, due to his unruly behavior. Seems Master Sergeant had been the proper choice; all that bitching paperwork had more than paid off when he was promoted. After all, who was gonna mess with a Master Gunny?

"The Brigadier General should be here soon. He said his meeting wasn't going to last more than an hour." While the words she said didn't hold an irritated connotation, Kellogg could taste the venom hidden in them. The truth was he knew exactly where the Brigadier General was and how long it would take him to get to the office. He could hear the footsteps mixed with the tap of the cane on the hallway floor outside, and judging by how quickly the beats were falling, he still had a good thirty seconds to goad the Lieutenant. He decided to try a different subject

"You know, Lieutenant, I couldn't help but notice the FN 1922. I have to say, I wasn't expecting a marksman of such high regard to carry a pussy-weak pistol like that. Though I suppose I shouldn't have expected anything heavier, .380 is standard for female officers." Ouch. That sent her overboard. Kellogg realized he may have made a mistake when, instead of responding with a loss of control, she reached behind her back and pulled out a pistol. Kellogg was quick to realize that the gun that was not, in fact, the 1922 that was housed in her holster, but a Webley .38 magnum. Though, from where she had pulled that gun from, he hadn't a clue.

Luckily for him, his timing wasn't off and Mustang entered the room before the Lieutenant in front of him did anything that he would regret.

"Lieutenant? Is something the matter?" Hawkeye glared at Kellogg and holstered her revolver.

"No, Sir. You have a visitor. This is MGySgt Kellogg." Mustang focused his senses on Kellogg, and realization dawned on him.

"Kellogg? How'd you get here so fast?"

"Word travels fast in my office. Should I have come later?

"No, no it's fine. I just wasn't expecting you for another hour. Lieutenant?" The blonde he had been pestering earlier turned to him with stereotypical military precision.

"Sir."

"I have transfer requests that need to be taken to down to HR. I'm also expecting Lieutenant General Armstrong in soon, and I have to meet with Kellogg, so I need you to hold down the office."

"Yessir. When are you expecting General Armstrong?" Kellogg was surprised to hear no exasperation in her voice, and figured that it wasn't too unusual for this Mustang to weigh her down like this.

"Well, I was expecting both her and Kellogg here in about an hour, but seeing as he's here, I haven't a clue." Kellogg decided to interject at his point.

"I know some of the cocksuckers who work down in Human Resources. They'll take forever to get the summon to Olivier." The blonde Lieutenant got an odd look that on her face that, to his own surprise, Kellogg couldn't read.

"An hour, then." Mustang turned and went to his office, and signaled Kellogg to follow him with his white and red cane. Not quite sure what he was about to get himself into, he followed him in, and Mustang shut the door behind him.

Riza sat in her chair and looked over the paperwork that the General had given her. It was all transfer paperwork, and she knew a fair amount of the names from the documents. The two on the top were for Chief Warrant Officer Falman and Master Sergeant Fuery. These two weren't a surprise. Roy was gathering his old empire, and the men he trusted with it. Breda wasn't far below, and she couldn't help but regret the absence of Havoc's name on the forms. It seemed anything that Roy wanted to do, he would have to manage without him.

There were a few others in the stack, including a sniper from her old unit, and a few other Enlisted men, but they were all being assigned under his command, not to his office. Giving the forms a once over, Riza straightened the stack of forms and left for the HR department. She wondered exactly what was going on, with the abnormally high traffic, not that she minded the busywork.

In the two months since the upraising there had been a shortage of productivity, since everyone had been tied down in investigations and reformation. Both Roy and General Armstrong were given promotions, Roy from Colonel to Brigadier General, and Armstrong from Major General to Lt. General, due to their roles in the revolution. Partly this was to do with their roles, but more than likely it was a way for the council to take advantage of the lack of High Brass and fill the holes with the two revolutionaries, who were heroes to the people, and thus placing them in favorable light. Sometimes Riza despised the politics involved in the military, but she could appreciate being one step closer to their goal.

It seemed that Roy was just now getting around to placing the pieces of his infrastructure back under his command, and Riza would be thankful to have to now empty office back to the way it used to be, even if she wasn't to certain about the new addition. Arriving at Human Resources, Riza entered the office and handed the transfer requests to the office secretary.

However, as she handed the forms to the office, the secretary surprised Riza with an official summon from Major General Mustang. A bit offset by the odd request, Riza retraced her steps back to the office that she worked at, Summon in hand. By the time she arrived Kellogg had left and Roy's office was open once again. Marching in, Riza gave her commanding officer a stiff salute. "General Mustang, 1st Lieutenant Hawkeye reporting in, sir." Roy casually looked up without rising from his desk.

"No need to be so formal, Hawkeye, Especially when it's just us."

"Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"I believe I just granted it, Lieutenant," Roy said with a small amount of humor on his lips.

"Why did you send me a summon request? You could have simply asked me to with you." Roy let out a heavy sigh.

"Honestly, Lieutenant, I wish it were that simple. Unfortunately for all of us the council is requiring me to keep official records of the whole recruitment process. It's a huge pain in the ass, and I think they're just doing it in order to keep me on the shortest leash possible." Suddenly the recent activity around the office held itself in a new light.

"And that's the reason why you've been holding back what's going on from me?" Roy nodded his head and went on.

"I have my paperwork filled out now, but I need to have a recruitment interview with you, and you're going to have to fill out about to get three metric tons of paperwork"

"Is that really necessary, Sir? I'm already under your command, and it's not like I'm about to withdraw my support."

"'Even into hell.' But, yes it is necessary, though it won't take long. So, let's begin." Roy reached over to the voice recorder located on the office desk between him and her, and flipped it on. "1st Lieutenant Hawkeye, the following is recorded and can be examined by the authorities for investigation purposes. This interview, coupled with the paperwork you will fill out afterward should you choose to accept the offer, will verify you as an official member of ROSE. Should you choose to not accept the offer, you are to give a life-binding oath that you will never speak of the proceeds of this meeting to anyone outside of myself and those who I give my permission to. Do you understand?"

"Yes, General."

"Good. Now, onto business. The purpose of this interview is to extend a formal invitation to you to join ROSE. As a member of ROSE you will participate in undercover and top-secret missions for the State of Amestris. You may be asked to do things that are not entirely legal, if under any other circumstances. You were selected because of your incredible skill demonstrated on the battlefield, and other traits that makes you an ideal soldier for the task.

"As a member of ROSE, you will be treated with a level of respect outside of the office that any member of an elite force would receive, including unquestioned use of any piece of State equipment. Inside the office, and during operations, conventional rank is ignored, and a new line of power is established, with me, Roy Mustang, as Command. As Command, my word is above all others and is treated as law. I am above all others, save for the Fuehrer, when one is appointed, and any disobedience to me, or my commands will be dealt with appropriately, as per my decision." Mustang went on, talking in a serious, yet bored voice. He had clearly given this speech a lot, and was doubtlessly going to give it a whole lot more.

At the end of the interview, and when Riza gave her acceptance and Roy handed he a hefty stack of paperwork, as promised. The whole process both made her nervous and excited her. She was soldier, and the prospect of being stuck in an office all day was very daunting, though she had always contained herself a lot better than Roy ever did. It was like being a predator trapped in a cage, denying her the ability to fly free.

At the same time, it was dangerous, and she had believed that she was out of the danger. Though, somehow she doubted that they would ever face an enemy like those they had fought moths earlier, if they did any combat missions at all. The important thing, however, was that Roy stay safe, and he, as Command, would be safely located in Central, and directing his forces from there. Any duties that would otherwise be unfulfilled, because of his lack of on-site location, would fall to 2nd Command, and he would stay safely the hell out of the way.


	2. New Office, New Officer

**First off I'd like to give Magicchef for the very helpful review (in which was actual criticism, and not just "wowoilikeditupdate!") and I did my best to correct said mistakes. You rock.**

**Okay, so it's Friday which means I have smidgen of time on hand, so time for writing! yay. I promise to update at last weekly, but, to be honest, I'm not reliable. If I ever take too long don't hesitate to give me a swift kick in the rear via PM or Review.**

"You're missing the point, Fuery. The goal isn't to outmaneuver me, but to make me oblivious to my objective."

"You already said that, but I still don't get it. How am supposed to surprise you if you can see all my pieces?"

"By setting up a trap. You're so used to fiddling with your little machines that you've gotten used to everything going the way it's supposed to. Humans make mistakes. Overlook things."

"…"

"See? Now I can take the pawn you just moved with my knight."

"Which means I can take the knight you just moved with mine own. A knight for a pawn seems like a good deal, don't you think, Breda?"

"And again, you're missing the point. When you moved you're knight you left your rook open, which means I can not only take it, but also put you in check. There is always an ulterior motive."

"So… I can take your queen with my rook."

"And I can that I take your rook with my bishop, leaving your king unprotected and putting you in checkmate. Fork it over."

"…! My wallets gone!"

"There is _always_ an ulterior motive."

* * *

Putting his boots on his desk, Roy waited for the door to open. He still had a few more issues to take care of before his team was up and running, but for now he was exhausted. All the paperwork and all the interviews had exhausted him and he really just wanted to go home and sleep. Of course, he still had one big interview left, an interview that he really wasn't looking forward to. But for now he could get some form of rest, at least until his Lieutenant walked in and found him with his feet on his desk. But then he would have a different form of stress relief.

Speak of the devil.

"Sir, get your feet off your desk. You still have a lot of paperwork to do, and I don't have time to constantly check up on you." He would never tell her, but he always found it… attractive when she ordered him around. Lowering his legs, he sighed and leaned his head on one of his hands.

"Lieutenant, don't you think you could cut me some slack? I don't want to fall asleep during the last interview." Riza addressed him as she brought in a new stack of papers, her voice sounding somewhat uninterested.

"Last one? What about the enlisted?"

"If this one goes well then she can take care of all the enlisted." Riza turned to him and looked him oddly.

"She? You're not thinking about…?"

"Lt. General Armstrong? Yes, I am. Why'd you think I sent her a summon?" She looked at him with an identifiable amount of pity and gave in.

"Get your rest, sir. Just don't get use to me letting you slack off." Roy blinked. He wasn't used to being let off the hook, especially by her. But then, she was right: he needed his rest. Feeling for a pillow in the form of a stack of work, he set his head down and dozed off.

Riza exited Roy's office lost in thought. The idea of Armstrong working for him was unfathomable. Armstrong had never been coy about her dislike of Roy, and Armstrong would have nothing to gain from service under hm. She knew that Armstrong's aim was the same as Roy's: Fuehrer. If anything it would just cement her place as a three star. There was something she was missing. Roy wouldn't compromise the secrecy of the group for a blind shot at eliminating a competitor.

The door made three loud bangs as Olivier pounded assaulted it with here closed fist. This was a waste of her time. Whenever she met with Mustang it always ended in her getting pissed off his demeanor and throwing something. Somehow she doubted this time would be any different. Knocking on the door again, she waited impatiently for an answer. When the answer came it wasn't from who she expected.

"Olivier? Oh yeah, Mustang did say something about…" The man who stood before her wore the rank of Master Gunnery Sergeant and had left an impression on her while last under her command that she wouldn't forget anytime soon.

"Felix. What are you doing here?"

"Can't tell you. Mustang'd have my ass."

"Bullshit. Just tell me and let him take it."

"Hardy fuckin' har. Scout's honor, I can't tell you." Olivier gripped the bridge of her nose. Felix had always had some bullshit self-reservation about the duty to the CO, one that she could never understand, nor waver. To him order was law, period. Brushing past Felix, she entered the office and directed herself to the officer in charge.

"You. Lieutenant Hawkeye, correct? I need to speak with your General." The Lieutenant gave a curt nod and entered the interior office. Soon after she exited the room gave clearance for her entrance. Calming herself for the meeting, Olivier entered the office fully prepared for the whole thing to be a monumental waste of time.

***

Roy released his pent up breath as soon as the Storm left his office. It had honestly surprised him when Armstrong accepted his offer, though if he had let that show through then she would have thrown it right back at him. However, she didn't, which meant that he now had his 2nd Command. It also meant that he didn't have to go through the rest of the stack of interviews. He could outsource those to Armstrong. Now he just had one more thing that he had to attend to.

Picking up the phone, Roy spun the wheel to the numbers that belonged to his old subordinate. When he answered the phone, Roy mentally ran through the things that he would ask for. "Havoc, I need a few favors."

"You know, funny thing is that's exactly what I'm fresh out of. You nearly bankrupted my shop during the revolution, Chief. No more free hand outs."

"I'm not looking for handouts. I'll pay for everything I ask for."

"Last time I checked, you don't ask for favors when you really mean 'Let's maje a business transaction.' So what's the catch?"

"Well, the 'business transaction' wouldn't exactly be 'legal.' " Roy held his breath while he waited for Havoc to answer. This was the only shot he had without working with the mob directly, and that's one thing he wanted to avoid at all costs. Havoc on the other hand, well, he could handle himself. Thankfully for Roy, he was willing to play ball.

"What do you need?'

"Guns. Lots of guns."

Riza unloaded her pistol on the target in front of her. It had been a while since she had last been to the range, due to both the mountain of paper work she had on her desk and her General's larger pile. Even before Roy had started his new assignment there was a lot of work to be done, which gave them ittle to no time for any form of stress relief. Shooting wasn't the only thing that neither she nor Roy had the chance to do in the recent weeks.

Pushing her unsatisfied sexual needs to the back of her mind, Riza concentrated on the target in front of her and unloaded another magazine in quick succession. Better, but still not perfect.

"Impressive. I've never seen a woman shoot like that." Damn. She knew that voice. She had come here partly to escape the owner of that voice.

"And what is that supposed to mean, Master Gunnery Sergeant?" She swore, if he was going to keep up his bigoted remarks up, she _would_ shoot him. Most likely in a place that he held very dear to his person.

"Exactly the way it sounded. As a compliment." _That wasn't what it sounded like to me._"It's refreshing to know that we have some level of competence on this 'elite' team. That Breda fellow seems like he's better at drawing a sandwich to his face than a gun." She didn't have the energy to play this game. He wanted a response out of her, but she wasn't going to give it to him. She had already let herself go too far back in the office, and he just wanted to see where her patience ended.

"Our old team may not seem like much, but I trust my life to them. They all have their areas of expertise, as do I." Kellogg took a large revolver out from under his uniform and handed it to her.

"Yours is guns, no? I saw your magnum earlier." _When I nearly shot him with it._ Taking the gun from his hand, she turned to look down range and took aim with the heavy pistol. The kick from the gun surprised her, popping her hands up significantly further than webley ever did. She fired the last five rounds and offered it back to him. "Keep it. I prefer automatics anyway. My 1911 suits me just fine." Riza looked at him, surprised. It was almost as if he was trying to get on her good side. Holstering the gn in her pocket, she made a mental note to buy a new shoulder holster and ammunition. When she got the time, of course.

When she got back Roy informed her that they would be relocating to a new office and that she would need to pack away her personal items that she intended to bring with her. She had figured that they would end up moving so she hadn't bothered unpacking when she had been relocated back under his command. Looks like her insightful laziness had paid off. Not that there was much to pack anyway. She had never been one to cart around her stuff from office to office. Some people felt that she was impersonal because of it, but really it just wasn't practical.

Their new office was a lot bigger than the one they were in up to this point. It had two interior offices, one for Roy and one for Armstrong, and a separate room with cells in it. Presumably for interrogations, but Riza was sure that wasn't all they were to be used for. The thing that surprised Riza the most, and everyone else in the office, was where it was located. Roy had dragged them to a janitor's closet in the basement floor of Central HQ, and opened the door to reveal a rather normal looking janitor's closet. Once inside one would remove a lampshade to reveal a keyhole that led to the real office. It wasn't until Riza saw the precautions that Roy had taken to secure his office that the implications sank in. To the outside world, ROSE didn't exsist.

**Yay, and the introduction is over. While this wasn't exactly the most fun thing to write, everything that I said needed to be said. Once again, all feedback is appreciated, even if it's "Get to the actual story already," or "These chapters a really boring."**


	3. Fifth District Cafe

**This Chapter was a lot of fun to write. It is rather long, however, longer than anything I've written before, so please tell me what you think about it. If you don't finish it, then please tell me.**

"What's the target?"

"The correct question is 'who is the target'."

"Whatever, fine. Who is the target?"

"There are two of them, actually. Colonel Benjamin Heat of The Department of Terrorism and Major James Howard of Internal Affairs. If you don't have them both then scrap the op."

"Why is it so important to have both of them?"

"It's your job to execute the plan, not ask questions. Now, Colonel Heat and Major Howard will be having lunch together in the Fifth District Café from about 12:15 to 12:45. I want you to take them in the _in the Café_ within that time window."

"Casualties?"

"Same as always; doesn't matter either way. Save for one exception, or rather two exceptions. Major Howard must die, and Colonel Heat must live."

"On the priority level?"

"These are the most important objectives. If you aren't able to follow through with these objectives then everything we have worked for will be nullified and our contract will be void."

"Is that all?"

"Yes. Oh, and Nickolas?"

"What?"

"I want you to participate in this op. Name your predecessor, but this mission requires your expertise and precision."

"Of course."

Olivier stormed into the office to see the whole room slacking off. Felix, Breda, Falman, and Fuery were around a couple of desks which had been dragged to the center of the room to be used as a poker table. Looking at the desks that were not shanghaied for the use of poker, she could clearly see that no one was even close to having enough work done in order to slack off.

"Why aren't you working? The Hawkeye's gonna come in here and string you all up by your balls." Felix addressed her without breaking concentration from their game.

"Vulgar, Olivier, but Command's office door is locked, which means that it's time for our hour-and-a-half break. We're safe from Lady Sniper for a good long time." Snickers were heard from around the table and Olivier looked at them, confused. "You don't get what they're doing in there, do you? Are you even human, or some sort of pseudo predator bitch?" Oliver growled. She wasn't about to give in, but he still had a way of cutting straight across her thin tolerance. "Command and his Lieutenant are locked up in their sound proof office 'attacking mounds of paperwork,' if you catch my drift." Olivier still didn't understand what he was getting at, so she just brushed him off. Mustang hadn't ever had the interest in paperwork that Felix was claiming, and she really didn't have time for his guessing games, anyway. Moving for the door to Mustang's office, Felix gave one last warning. "Don't do it. Hell hath no fury like Roy Mustang when you interrupt his and Lieutenant's special time."

Once again ignoring him, Olivier gave three quick bangs on the hard wood door. When no answer came she knocked again, and this time it was a good thirty seconds until the door swung open. His hair was mussed and he had a look of extreme irritation on his face. "Dammit Armstrong, I'm in the middle of something important. Whatever it is, either you can take care of it or it can wait for a fucking half-an-hour." She kept her head held high and her own anger shown just as brightly in her eyes.

"Mustang, why the fuck weren't you answering your goddamned phone? The Council just called and I'm _sure _they won't be amused if you don't have a damn good reason." Mustang blinked and turned back to his office. Olivier noticed that the desk looked like it had been hit by a tornado, and the phone was residing on the floor, unhooked from the line.

"It was, ah, unable to receive the call." Mustangs voice was embarrassed and his face was an odd shade of red. Olivier would have normally realized the cause, but her mind was focused on the task at hand. This was a big moment. "What'd they have to say?"

"There has been a terrorist attack in Fifth District. They want us to mobilize immediately." Something clicked in Mustang and his incompetence left him, replaced with a businesslike seriousness.

"Fifth district, that's not five minutes from here. Fuery, I need a com link established with Armstrong, Breda, Kellogg, and Hawkeye, stat. Breda, go to the public archives. I'm going to need you to get the floor plan of whatever building the terrorists have seized. Falman, I need information on this group; anything you can dig up. Go with Breda to the public archives and use his Comsat to relay the information to me and Armstrong." Mustang turned to Olivier and Felix. "Kellogg, you're in charge of the enlisted. Olivier, I'm going to need constant status updates. Hawkeye will be located in one of the surrounding buildings providing sniper support. Why are you still here? This operation is already in effect!"

Fuery rushed out of his comm room and handed the appropriate people their Comsats. Olivier moved quickly to the transportation located outside, while Felix gathered his teams. As she waited in the plain white van, Olivier couldn't help but give Mustang the credit he deserved. She was starting to question her decision to join his team once again until he had started to dull out orders, quickly and efficiently, which had effectively put her doubts to rest.

Felix flung open the back door to the large white van and evaluated the space. With all the equipment, there was enough for about four people in each van, not including the driver and shotgun. "Sergeant York, take Alpha in the other van and follow us. You have your Comsat?" York gave a nod of his head. "Set it to frequency 140.85 and keep in contact with me. Sergeant Lee!"

"Sir!"

"Take Bravo and stay on me." Felix got into the driver's seat of the van and started it up. As they sped down the off roads Felix off handedly spoke to Olivier, who was located in the seat next to him. "Damn, Liv, brings back some memories, don't it? I've missed this sort of thing, you know."

"That goes without saying, Felix. Having a desk job has been making me soft."

"I just wish that the guns Mustang promised us would have gotten here already. I'm tired of using these military issued pieces of shit." Felix had had his mp40 jam on him one too many times for him to trust his life to it. "Yo! Bravo! I need a shotgun, and a few potato mashers." After they handed up his requested items he turned to his superior. "Anything you want?"

"Do you have a Kar98 back there?"

"Hand the lady a Mauser," he yelled to the back once again, motioning with his hand. "You do realize that this is going to be urban, right?"

"If anything gets too close, I have my sword." When they got to Fifth District Felix pulled over to the curb and flipped on his Comsat. "Command, this is Enlisted One, I need verification on the target building. Repeat: I need verification on the target building."

"Enlisted One, this is Command. There is a restaurant on the main road called Fifth District Café. The Café is surrounded with several Terrorists, and Lady Sniper is in position." Felix started up the van again and drove toward the main street.

"Copy, Command. What is the hostage situation?"

"Reports show only two liabilities. These are high priority hostages, and they must not be lost at any cost. Do you copy?"

"Rodger, Command." Seeing the restaurant, Felix parked a few hundred meters from it to avoid suspicion, but still within a reasonable distance. "CommCheif, this is Enlisted One. I need my frequency rerouted to 140.85." Checking his ammunition, Felix directed himself to Olivier, speaking to his commander, no longer his friend. "Command Two, what's our COA?"

* * *

Riza sat in her sniper's perch, watching, waiting; a predator on the battlefield, eyeing her prey. She was, perhaps, one of the most important parts of the whole operation. She was one of the eyes of Command, and would provide detailed information of the battlefield as she saw it to the boots on the ground. She could see the two teams, Alpha and Bravo, split up so that they were on both sides of the building. There was a sniper on the rooftop, but he had yet to see her, or any of her team. He would be the first to be taken out.

"Lady Sniper, come in Lady Sniper, this is Command Two." Riza flipped on the mic to her Comsat, and responded.

"Command Two, this is Lady Sniper. I read you loud and clear. "

"Lady Sniper, I'm going to need a Battlefield Status, ASAP."

"Roger, Command Two. We have multiple Bogeys on the ground, three on Alpha's entry point and four on Bravo's. I can confirm one sniper on the rooftop, giving status updates every two minutes. I cannot give info on the interior building, but this is large for a terrorist group as it is. I wouldn't expect more than one or two on the interior of the building."

"Copy that, Lady Sniper. Keep me posted. Command, do you have the building floor plan yet?"

"Strategic Research has just located the blueprints. CommCheif, link up Strategic Research with Command Two."

"Command Two, this is Strategic Research, what is it that you need?" As Breda said this Riza saw the sniper on the rooftop give his bi-minutely report.

"Command Two, this is Lady Sniper. The rooftop sniper has just given his report. We have another two minutes until he's due again."

"Copy that, Lady Sniper. Strategic Research, I need the door ways to the building."

"There's one wooden door on the front entrance, a fire escape on the south side, and a back door leading into the kitchen on the west side of the building."

"Where does the Kitchen lead to?"

"It's a straight shot from the kitchen to the dining room. There are no hallways in the building, leaving a very small margin of error. If you enter in the back then, more than likely, you'll be taking them by surprise." Olivier was silent for a moment, weighing her options. Making her decision, she addressed Fuery.

"CommCheif, cut my line with Strategic Research. Command, I need clearance to execute the mission."

"You have clearance, Command Two. Just make sure the hostages are not killed."

"Lady Sniper what's the status on our sniper?"

"We have one more minute before we're in the clear." Suddenly Riza caught a glimpse in the front window. Pulling her scope down to get a better view, she saw a man in black, the same dress as the terrorists on the outside of the building, and two men tired on the floor, in Military blues. The terrorist was holding a pistol to one of the hostage's heads. "Hold up, Command Two. I've spotted the two hostages and one Bogey on the inside. I think he's threatening an execution." Olivier directed her speak to Roy.

"Command, please advise, we may have a possible execution."

"Have shots been fired?"

"Negative."

"Then proceed as normal."

"Thirty seconds," Riza said, giving indicating the time they had left.

"Enlisted One, turn on your Comsat." Riza heard a small blip that indicated Kellogg arrival in the conversation.

"I'm online."

"Alright Enlisted One, group with Alpha and enter the building from the west side back door. You need to cut to the front of the store and eliminate the Terrorist inside. Can get to the clear the Three Bogeys on your side?"

"Not without taking more time than I'd like." Riza interjected at this.

"I can assist, Enlisted One. I have shot at one of the Bogeys without causing suspicion. Twenty seconds."

"Roger that, Lady Sniper. I can take the remaining two out."

"Confirmed. I'll take Bravo and clear the four remaining Bogeys on the outside of the building. On Lady Sniper's mark."

"Ten seconds." The ten seconds passed in complete silence, everyone waiting for the sniper to make his update.

Seeing the sniper put his radio down through her scope, Riza squeezed the trigger of her rifle, causing a soft thump to resonate from her suppressed gun. The bullet cut through to the man's apricot, causing a spray of pink mist to exit his head as he was forcefully pushed into a leaning position. "Mark!" Immediately after Riza spoke into her Comsat, a gunshot rang from the Café and the front window splattered with blood.

After hearing Hawkeye give the directive to strike echoed y the the gunshot from the Café, Felix initiated the hunt. Nothing mattered, save for his objective. No matter what stood in his way, it would be eliminated.

Withdrawing his knife from its sheath, he crept up to the first man in black, not making a sound. Arriving immediately behind him, Felix placed his hand over the man's mouth and nostrils, not letting any sound escape from the man's mouth. Gently, he slid his knife into the man's throat, and gently lowered him onto the ground. Making a hand gesture to the three men he brought with him, one of them took out the remaining man with his silenced pistol. The other man would have already been taken out by Hawkeye.

Stacking up on the door, Felix took the shotgun he had brought with him, and aimed it at the doorknob. Holding the trigger down, he pumped the gun, sending a steel slug into the door. "Clear!" His men immediately entered the kitchen wielding the mp40 submachine guns, checking the corners for terrorists. When they were halfway across the Kitchen, a second shot rang out from the front of the Café. Shouldering his combat shotgun, Felix hopped over a countertop, knife and pistol at the ready.

One man, dressed in Military blues, stood over two dead bodies. Seeing Felix and his team, he pointed to the dead body dressed in black with his pistol and started to speak. "I was able to pry this man's weapon from him and use it against him." Felix didn't really give a fuck about what he had to say. There was a man in front of him waving a gun around, and while it was likely that his explination was true, he wasn't about to get careless. Slowly walking to the man, Pistol and knife still extended, he spoke in a commanding tone.

"Sir, drop the gun and place your hands above your head."

"But, I'm not the bad guy. The terrorist is dead."

"Sir, I need you to drop the gun and put your hands above your head." He was almost within striking distance.

"But I," finally Felix had closed the necessary space. Dropping his own pistol, relying on his attached chord to reel it back in, he grabbed the man's arm and twisted it so that his knife was near the man's throat, and the man's pistol was in Felix's hands. Calling over to one of his men, he directed his subordinate to handcuff the man, and he placed him face up on the ground.

"Command, This is Enlisted One. We have a hostage secure. Awaiting further instruction."

* * *

"Dammit!" Roy slammed his hand on his desk as he swore. The whole team was irritated at the semi-botched operation, but there was really nothing that could have been done about it. Riza was possibly the most responsible for the death of Major Howard, she being the only one with anything close to what could be considered a shot, but even she really couldn't have prevented it. Even if she had a completely clear shot, taking it would have compromised the mission. She couldn't take the shot without it resulting in causalities from their own team.

All things considered they had really preformed exceptionally. Alpha and Bravo team had managed to take out each terrorist before they had realized what had been going on. Their communication between the officers showed a certain chemistry between them, and everyone had played their role to par. But that didn't change the outcome.

It showed that a disturbing amount of the mission relied on simple luck. It was bad luck that they had not showed up two minutes earlier or executed the mission two minutes earlier, and it was good fortune that Colonel Heat had managed to wrestle the pistol away from the terrorist and defend himself. They, in the end, had little to do with the well-being of the hostages.

Roy let out a sigh and ran his hand through his messy hair. "We can still salvage a victory from this, or at least something that looks like a victory. The council was pleased with the way we handled the situation, despite the partial loss of the objective, and have decided to continue funding for ROSE. We now have a permanent assignment." He tossed a folder down on the desk he was standing at. "The terrorists that seized the Café are believed to be part of a larger organization. This is all the information we have on them," he said, pointing to the folder he had just placed on the desk.

Armstrong chose that time to enter the office, frustrated from having to deal with Colonel Heat. Roy turned to her and addressed her directly. "So, Armstrong, what's the damage?" Armstrong looked at Roy for a solid second before she responded.

"I need to see you privately. Now." Roy nodded and took her into his office, closing the door behind him.

Looking around her, Riza found no joy in the exterior office. She had hoped that with Kellogg in the office that the mood would be lightened; despite his methodical attempts to get under her skin, even she could appreciate his darkened sense of humor. But now he seemed to be the most miserable of them all, his sharp blue eyes holding a sense of self disgust in them. He seemed to take it the hardest of them all.

She couldn't help but feel slightly out of place. The rest of the team had their desks located in the exterior office, and they were all working dully on their reports for the operation. But she worked in Roy's office, and didn't have anything to do but sit awkwardly. Finally fed up with the awkwardness, she headed down to the range, determined to do something to take her mind off everything.

Finally done with the paperwork that was due, Felix straightened the forms and dumped them into the file cabinet. The thing that killed him the most was that there was nothing he could have done about it. Everything he had done, all his actions, had been precise. He had been at his best. And yet the objectives were not met. He didn't give two fucks that Major Howard had died, Howard was a personal acquaintance of his, and his life wouldn't be missed, at least by him. The problem was that he failed.

He knew what he needed. He needed a sparring partner. Hawkeye had more than likely made her way down to the range, and she would surely be up to the task.

* * *

When he entered the ranged he found his suspicions confirmed. Hawkeye was indeed brushing up on her marksmanship. He was a little bit proud when he noticed the gun she was using. "Are you enjoying my revolver, Lieutenant?" She didn't even turn to face him, more than likely not wanting to face him, him being the miserable failure he was.

"It has a satisfying kick. I've never shot one quite like it."

"I figured you for a size queen." He instantly regretted the words that he said. He was trying to score points, yet the words slipped out by themselves. Luckily for him, she was apparently already used to his snide comments.

I saw you on the battlefield today, Master Gunnery Sergeant. I've told you my expertise, yet I've still yet to learn yours."

"Hand to hand combat. You're familiar with the techniques, no?"

"I have some amount of skill."

**Next chapter: Riza fights with Kellogg. That should be hella fun to write. Reviews are always appreciated, and they make my day go so nicely. Especially because I've but a lot of effort in this, and I want to know if you liked it, or hated. Be honest people. If you say that You didn't like it, then it will make the reviews of people who did like it that much sweeter.**


	4. ForySeven Crates of Potatoes

**( Chapter 102 spoiler alert) So, after 102 I was kindof freaking out, 'cause I figured that Roy would go through human transmutation (in fact I was kindof banking on it) but I wasn't expecting him to lose his eyes. Or rather, his vision. But then I realized that his absence of sight doesn't kill this story, but rather compliments it. So I'm happy. Sure I'll have to revamp a couple of fight scenes that I had in my mind later on, but In the end I'm rather pleased with this development. For some reason a blind Roy is just pretty, well I dunno, badass?**

**Here we delve into Character development hardcore. During the fight Riza may seem a tad bit OoC, but she doesn't have too much experience with CQC, as she is a sniper, so I think that her guard would come down when she is forced to concentrate one hundred percent on a somewhat foreign art form. Anyway, the fight is for Felix's character, and the chapter one disclaimers still apply, by the way.**

"What is it?"

"Do you know who we just saved?"

"Obviously. Colonel Benjamin Heat, of the Department of Terrorism. What kind of Command would I be if I didn't know the details of our mission?"

"Colonel Heat was the officer in charge of Domestic Terrorism. He has detailed reports on this specific organization, the organization that we are now investigating."

"Your point?"

"Let's be completely honest. We know shit about terrorists. Fuck, we are terrorists, or were at least. This guy has spent twenty years investigating terrorism, and we just saved his ass."

"And you're suggesting…?"

"Just because your blind doesn't mean you can't see. Use your fucking brain for once and stop acting coy with me."

"Lieutenant if-"

"General."

"Lieutenant _General_, if you're suggesting that I should enlist this poor bastard into my team, then please, get out of my office."

"I'm not saying you should recruit the sonuvabitch, I'm just saying that he's a valuable resource."

"So you're suggesting… equivalent exchange?"

"Fuck equivalent exchange. I'm saying that we take what he has, then dump on the roadside."

"…"

"Well? I need your clearance to have my way with him."

"What about Major Howard? He was Internal Affairs, what was he working on?"

"He was working with Heat on the terrorist case. I was about to look into his files."

"Bring me the case files from Howard."

"And Heat?"

"Do what you will with Heat. Just don't compromise ROSE."

(PAGE BREAK)

Felix circled around the woman in front of him, taking in every small detail. Her stance was moderate, her balance elegant. The way she held her hands was a bit off, but that was no surprise. She was out of practice, if nothing else. He didn't doubt her ability, but she was no expert. She was a sniper; she dealt death from afar. She was out of her territory, and had wandered into his.

Aggressively, she took a quick step forward, and forced her forearm at him in offence. He let her strike connect, testing her strength. The blow was more powerful than he expected, but nothing he couldn't handle. To his mild amusement she relaxed her battle stance and looked at frustratingly.

"You let me land that. When I suggested that we do this, I wasn't asking you to take pity on me." He grinned, feeling his joyless smile stretch across his face, and flipped behind her to place her into a hold before she could register his movement at all.

"Miss Hawkeye, I wasn't suggesting that I _was_ taking pity on you. You let your guard down in the middle of a fight. So far you haven't impressed me." She looked at him shocked at first, but her eyes soon turned defiant. He released her let her recuperate her battle position.

"Be careful of any cheap tricks your enemy might use against you. If I had malicious intent, you'd be dead. Or worse."

"I wouldn't have relaxed around an enemy on the battlefield." He noted that this time she had kept up her stance during their conversation. He wouldn't use the technique he had just used on her, not when she was alert. It relied on speed and only speed. A simple application of force from her body in the right location would have sent him flying to the ground.

"I am the enemy! This is the battlefield! You're a liar to say that, because you _just did_." This time he went for a slower, more solid movement, one that would not be thrown off by a jab of the elbow.

Somewhat swiftly, Hawkeye effectively evaded the maneuver. She was alert, and she was now fighting at her best. At least, the best she could conjure in a non-dire situation.

"Good. You're a level above par. But that doesn't mean you'll survive."

"I told you, I don't expect you to hold back."

"I thought we already established that you can't handle that." She grew angry again. As he figured, she had a temper below her calm exterior that shown through in the heat of battle.

"I wasn't paying attention."

"And that's why you're not ready." He accented his statement with a grab that easily twisted her arm behind her back, incapacitating her once again. "Twice means shame on you." She growled defiantly, and he released her arm. "Did you see that strike coming?" She nodded her head. "The Ishbalans prize speed in the art above all else. That technique I used on you before was Ishbalan, but I prefer an assault that relies on strength and leverage above deception, like the grab I just used." Riza once again kept her stance up, but responded assuredly.

"Ishbalan? Was your Teacher an Ishbalan monk?" He laughed, and he could tell that Hawkeye was somewhat unsettled by it. He tended to have that effect on people. His eyes, his grin, his laughs had no humor in them. He answered her question before taking a swift strike at her, parried by her right arm.

"In a way, but I wasn't taught by no camel fucker. I just learned from them as I killed them. My job in the Extermination Campaign was to hunt down the Ishbalan monks, one by one. They were causing such a problem to our boys that Bradley saw fit to send in the best." He noted her eyes flash a certain disgust at his racism and arrogance. She struck him with an uppercut to the gut, which he allowed to connect.

"You… enjoyed the job." He grinned once more.

"Of course I did. There was a level of pride that went along with the task. I would challenge these men, me versus them. No tricks, no guns, just hand to hand combat. Time after time these men would face me, and time after time the men would fight me, and time after time these men would fall. Have you ever taken someone's life with a blade, Sniper?" Hawkeye was starting to get disturbed on a deep level. His words were starting to affect her soul. Her strikes were becoming stronger, wilder, and more easily evaded. It had taken a lot of effort on his part to get her to this status, but all he had to do was brush against the right chords.

"Knives. I don't like knives." She said this to herself more than him, as if repeating a personal mantra.

"Shame. Guns don't give you the pleasure of feeling a man's body shiver as his soul leaves him." He saw he eyes turn into something foreign. A new level of hatred was present in them as she flung herself at him.

She was possessed, as if she didn't register that she was attacking him anymore. He gently grabbed her forearm in midair and flipped her body onto the flood.

"You've lost your temper, Hawkeye." His words had had the desired effect, and it was time to end his game. "Our sparring match is over. You are dismissed." She wouldn't question his unranked authority.

Riza was glad to get away from the man she had been fighting. He had reminded her of Kimbley, but with a Bradley-esque combat efficiency. He had scared her, and she had lost her temper in a frightened panic. She could understand his importance on their team: he had an efficiency that rivaled Wrath's. But she didn't like it. He genuinely frightened her.

She found it funny, in a bizarre way. It was from men like that who they were trying to save the country from. War mongrels, freaks that joined the army to participate in the bloodshed. They were fighting fire with fire, and if they weren't careful, they would get burned.

The way he had fought, it was truly spectacular. When she had told him to give it his all, and when he had complied, he had her pinned so fast that she hadn't even had a chance to realize what was going on, much less respond. She was caught off guard, both mentally and physically. He was out of her league, she wondered exactly whose league he was in. He had called himself the best, and now she was starting to realize that wasn't a statement made in prideful arrogance.

She lost her temperament when he said his last statement because she literally saw a polymorph of Kimbley and Bradley, rather than who he actually was. She had lost control of her mental state, and she needed to regain it. He had approached the fight much differently than she had. For her, she had been sizing him up, evaluating his ability throughout the fight. He had her evaluated before her second strike. After that he had been goading her, testing her patience, as he usually did, but also teaching her. She had signed up for fighting lessons without realizing it, and she knew this wouldn't be her last.

* * *

Roy relaxed in his chair with his office door open, waiting for Riza to get back to the office. He didn't have much to do, as he didn't have to sign any of the after battle reports and had already typed out his report. He trusted only Riza to revise his reports, but that hadn't been any different before his little encounter with The Truth.

One small advantage to being blind: his paperwork load was dramatically reduced, limited to only the forms that were important enough to translate to brail, the ones that were necessary for him to fill out. At the formation of ROSE, they had been in no short supply, but now that he had those filled out he was able to enjoy a fraction of his work, mostly just signing things from Armstrong to make them official.

He heard footsteps at his door and could smell Riza's scent enter the office. Another small advantage of being blind: while he couldn't enjoy the beautiful sight that Riza offered, he could enjoy her presence in other ways due to his other heightened senses. He heard the door shut gently and footsteps approaching him. "Lieutenant," he greeted. She surprised him by sitting in his lap and pressed her head against his chest.

"Roy." Her voice was shaky and almost frightened. It was unusual for her to break office conduct like this, especially when it wasn't to have sex, but it was even more unusual for her to carry the tone of voice she did. He was concerned for her, and he wrapped his arms around her, stroking her hair.

Not thirty seconds later she climbed off him, obviously having recovered. "Sir, Havoc's on hold on line one. He claims he has the order you placed, and wants to know where he should drop it off." He couldn't help but smile at this. He had never used guns much, but he understood the soldiers' quips with the weapons. They were outdated and hadn't been replaced due to the turmoil of reorganization. He hadn't specified what guns they needed, he really wouldn't know after all, but Havoc promised the latest and greatest.

"Have him deliver them to the front of the main headquarters. I'll send Breda and some of the enlisted down to pick them up." She nodded and left to relay the information. He was satisfied with the prospect of the new guns. Kellogg had been bitching about it to him, so now hopefully he would shut up about it. Plus they would more than likely put Riza in a good mood, and that was more than enough reason for him to get excited.

* * *

Olivier starred at the man in front of her in her usual discontented manner. She didn't trust him, but then again, she didn't trust anyone who she was meeting for the first time. His shortish grey and red hair was bothering her. It was wild and showed, in her opinion, a lack of discipline. Much like Mustangs, except he made a small effort at taming his hair. Heat's just flared out everywhere, and she wanted to take her own sword to it and cut it herself.

"Colonel Heat, do you know why you are here?" He subconsciously ran his fingers through his goatee as he thought.

"I'd assume that it would have something to do with the terrorist act today. I saw you on my way out of the building, commanding the soldiers. Or rather, the soldiers on the outside of the building."

"Correct. The investigation of the terrorist's responsible has been transferred to my jurisdiction. You and Major Howard were already carrying out an investigation, correct?" A nod from Colonel Heat. "I've brought you here to request your files on the investigation, both yours and Major Howard's."

"I'm afraid that I cannot give you Major Howard's reports, as I am not his commanding officer. I would be more than willing to share mine, however." He had agreed to that far too quickly. It was unlike any investigator she knew to give up all their records on their investigation. Not that she needed either of their permission. This was exactly what she was looking for; judging from his quick submission the files and reports would be of little use to her. The real information was locked up inside his head, no doubt, and now she had to find a way to extract it.

"Have you filled out a report on the incident at the Café today?" He shook his head and Olivier cut him off before he could ramble on anymore. "Then I'll leave you too that. I expect all of reports to be delivered to my office by this time tomorrow, Colonel. You are dismissed." She would come back later with reinforcements. For now she had paperwork that she needed to fill out. She was leading a double role, and Mustang wasn't being kind with the amount of paperwork he was piling on top of her. She had all of her paperwork from belonging to the General Staff on top of her workload from ROSE, and the stacks were just getting larger and larger.

* * *

Jean Havoc wheeled the large truck around to the front of the building where he saw a familiar face waiting for him. Heymans Breda was standing with an impatient look on his face, clearly uncomfortable with his dress blues buttoned up. He had a good relationship with all of his former comrades, and they occasionally all got together to go out drinking or play poker, but he had always shared a greater friendship with Breda. Fuery and Falman had always been on their own little planet of technicalities, but Breda was down to earth, and they got along a lot better despite Breda's greater intellect.

He gave a wave to catch his attention, and pulled to the side. With a nod from Breda he tossed him the keys to the back of the truck and used his crutches to lower himself from the cabin. While his legs were dead weight, he could use them as a third crutch and as stabilizers. He would normally just use his wheelchair, but he hadn't gotten a folding one yet, so he'd have to make do with his crutches.

"You know, Havoc, I can't understand why the hell the General would want fifty crates of potatoes." He looked at Jean, who had made his way to the back of the truck at this point, and silently demanded and answer.

"Well, I had to disguise the weight of the metal somehow, and potatoes seemed like the best way to go." Jean realized when Breda looked at him quizzically that he was answering the wrong question. He briefly wondered if Mustang had told anyone about the guns. Breda made a heavy "oof" when he lifted one of the crates, and Havoc wondered if he had overdone it. Mustang hadn't specified how many guns he wanted, so he had went all out.

In total the guns and ammunition had cost him about fifty million cenz due to the jacked up prices of dealing with foreign and domestic mafias, so he would charge Mustang about three times that. He would flip a lid when he heard the total price, but he was dealing with military budget, and from the sounds of it he had deep pockets. Jean wouldn't be going to hungry for a good long time.

It took a full hour to get the truck unloaded with the help that Breda had brought back with him. Jean needed to get Mustang's signature on the purchase, so he started to head up to the office that he used to work at, before Breda stopped him.

"Can you keep your mouth shut?" Jean looked at Breda oddly.

"If I couldn't then why would Mustang trust me to deliver forty-seven crates of 'potatoes' to his office?" Breda grinned and turned Jean to the opposite direction that he was originally headed.

"Our new office is room J7. Knock twice on the inside when you get there." Jean looked at him questioningly.

"Where are you going?"

"I have business to attend to at Records. I'll tell Schiezka you said hi." With that he left and Jean was left to make his journey to Mustangs office.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me." Jean looked at his old CO amusingly. He had just got done explaining what was going on, and Jean had a greater understanding of what he was being used for. He also realized that his business was getting a high rolling regular customer, and he planned on making the most of Mustangs high budget.

"You said that you wanted 'a hell-of-a-lot-of guns'. All things considered, I didn't get that many. Maybe you should try to be more specific next time you make an order through me. Anyway, dealing with the black market doesn't exactly help lower the cost."

"Whatever. Just hand me the papers." Jean slid the recite across Mustangs large oak desk and placed the pen on the line where he had to sign. Jean couldn't help but be impressed by how well Mustang got around without his vision. Impressed, but not surprised.

"What are you labeling the purchase as?" he asked as he signed the forms.

"Potatoes. From Drachma." Mustang paused for a moment.

"Potatoes?" Jean nodded with a somewhat embarrassed grin and a grunt that resembled a 'yeah'. "I'm paying one hundred and fifty million cenze for forty-seven crates of potatoes?"

"Drachmann potatoes," Jean corrected. "It costs a little bit extra to have them imported."

**I think I'm satisfied with this chapter. I'm trying really hard to develop Felix into the character that I need him to be, the character that he is in my mind, and so far I feel it's going rather well. Tell me what you think of him, because I'm the author so I see him from a completely different perspective, I think. And my standard review policy applies. Reviews keep me going, positive or negative. As A Perfect Circle said, Gimme Gimme Gimme.**


	5. The Double Agent

"So, how'd it go?"

"Heat's not going to talk anytime soon, and I have a feeling that he has some beans kept up in him that no amount of beating will spill."

"I take it that means 'not so great'."

"Throwing around our authority isn't going to work here. We need to try a different method."

"And I bet you already have one ready to use."

"I want to place a man on the inside."

"The inside of what? Heat?"

"Fuck you. I want a man in Foreign Affairs and the Department of Terrorism."

"You want me to buy out men who work for the same government we do? Is that wrong on a legal perspective, or just a moral one?"

"I'm not suggesting that we buy one of their men. I've tried that before, and it doesn't work. I'm suggesting that we plant a man in there, and use him snoop around."

"Hmm. You think that'll work?"

"I do. I just need someone to play the role of double agent."

"I think I have just the man."

(PAGE BREAK)

"So, Lieutenant Breda, what qualifications do you have for this position?" Heymans drummed his fingers on the desk, bored. He didn't want to be here. He had avoided the office of Internal Affairs like the plague, picking any other career path that was offered to him. That was how he got assigned to Mustang in the first place, by taking a the strenuous amount of deskwork that Mustang offered over the prospect of going into the office of Internal Affairs, but now Mustang had other plans for him. The cruel circle of fate was coming full circle once again. Next thing he knew, Mustang would order him to babysit Hawkeye's little black and white beast-demon.

He figured that would be the point when he relived himself from his commission.

"I graduated from Nicolson University, with a degree in Criminal Investigation, and have worked with detective agencies, both private and military." The man in front of him looked impressed.

"You graduated from Nicolson?" No. But he did have the paperwork to prove it, and even if they were being picky, that was more than enough reason make space for him in there department. Coupled with his "experience", also falsified, and the excellent employer's evaluations that they would receive if they tried to look into his past, his position was practically guaranteed, leaving no opportunity for him to wiggle out of this job.

He nodded uninterestedly in response to the man's question. This whole interviewing he had been giving a half-assed attempt at acting as if he wanted the job, hoping, and knowing otherwise, that his platonic enthusiasm would off-set the man into looking past his credentials and cause the man to turn him down. His jacket was unbuttoned, his head was supported by his fist and he had even brought in a sandwich to munch on throughout the interview. None of which were enough to let someone look past a degree from Nicolson.

"Well, your credentials are certainly wonderful, Lt. Breda, but a job in Internal Affairs requires a distinct passion for the work. There is one last question I need to ask you: how badly do you want this position?" Heymans was fairly sure that the man had seen his eyes roll at the question, so he didn't bother to keep the sarcasm from his voice, as the man would just ignore it anyway.

"It's truly been my life's ambition since I was little-"

"Great! We're happy to have someone who has a passion for the work. How soon can you start?" As he thought. Dammit, he hated it when he was right.

"Next week. Unfortunately I can only work on Sunday through Tuesday, as per doctor's orders, but that won't change my workload."

"That's fine, so long as you still get your paperwork filled out on time, and share an equal amount of field time. At least until the base doctor gives you permission to be on duty full time." And that was it. All of his opportunities to half to skip out on work, flown out the window, replaced with a large spike of forms, reports, and personal files to fill out. Ho boy. Now all he had to do was go and have a similar interview with the Department of Terrorism, and kiss his personal life goodbye.

* * *

Olivier examined the stacks of crates in the office and grumbled in frustration. They had been at this for a solid week, and they were approaching the last few that were unopened. It was far more effort than it had originally seemed, and it hadn't seemed like a small amount originally. In order to get through each box they were forced to crack it open, take each firearm out and examine them individually to inspect them for imperfections, and then make records of the model, caliber, and quantity on the top of the box. That was the most frustrating part: once they got done with a crate, all the guns would go back in, to be taken out at a later date, once they had their gun room constructed. Which was code for god knows when.

Admittedly, it would be nice when they got to use the guns, but for now might've well have been crates of plain metal. Or perhaps potatoes, as they were labeled.

Pulling down a new crate, Olivier popped open the top to reveal a collection of steel rifles with wooden butt stocks and wood right next to the magazine catches. They were kind of funny looking, and were vaguely reminiscent their own mp44's which she had come to recognize the value of. Looking at the model inscription, she read aloud "Avtomat Kalashnikova Model 47." When she did, both Hawkeye and Felix looked up from the guns they were dealing with, curiosity piqued. She tossed one of them to each of them, and waited as they both looked over the new rifle.

"Shit," Felix said. "I've been waiting to my hands on one of these for a long time." Hawkeye just looked over the gun in interest.

"What is it?" Olivier asked, waiting for a response from either of them. The more they knew collectively, the less she would have to deduce from the gun and the less she would have to test it. Hawkeye was the one to answer first.

"'AK47', the official gun of the Drachmann Military." She continued to look over the gun before continuing. "They use 7.62 by 39mm ammunition, somewhat of a novelty round, but if Jean could get these, then it shouldn't be too much trouble to get the ammunition for them." She tossed the rifle back at Olivier, and continued with her own crate. Felix, on the other hand, was giving the gun a much more thorough look over, disassembling it and reassembling, taking in all the information mentally.

"Hey, Olivier, do mind if I do the tests on these?" Less work for her and more time off base? Hell no, she didn't mind.

"Be my guest. Just make sure you don't screw up the paperwork."

"Thanks, Liv." No one called her by that name, unless they were Felix Kellogg. He had exclusive rights to call her by the pet names she had gone by back in her days before she had been transferred to Briggs, and for some reason, it never bothered her when he called her by them. One school of thought was that he was one of the only people who actually knew her back in her days South City, but then again, when she thought about it, she had never really let anyone call her that back then, either. Just him.

More than likely it was because she knew that he did it just to irritate her.

Brushing past her musings, she shuffled through the AKs to get to the next type of weapon.

Though the work was monotonous and time consuming, there was a small comfort in it. The work was very mechanic and one could basically operate on autopilot while doing it. It was, at first, a welcome relief from the stacks of paperwork that she despised so much. That was what she didn't like about Central, and that was the reason she had accepted Mustangs offer in the first place. She was a man of action, or a woman of action respectively, and the prospect of sitting in an office all day, everyday never suited her very well. She loved being posted in Briggs because she had always felt like she was doing something, making some sort of difference, rather than just being the boss who outsourced all of the problems to her underlings. In the three months since their little upraising she had started to realize just what being in the General Staff meant, and she had been getting restless. Her place was on the battlefield.

* * *

Roy ran his fingers across the report for the third time. He had been pouring over the case files from Heat and Howard a lot lately, but there was still something that just didn't seem right to him. If there was one thing he had learned from the reports, it was that investigators put a lot more thought in their files than anyone else. Save, perhaps, for alchemists. In fact, the files were somewhat reminiscent of an alchemist's research notes.

The investigation files had a certain ambiguity to them. With alchemist's notes one only had to crack the code. With the reports he was examining, it was more a matter of reading between the lines. All the facts, or at least all the facts found on official time, were clearly recorded. The opinions, however, were neatly hidden within the pages of technical recordings. Not exactly coded, but more just written down in a way that only the person who wrote them would understand. Hidden would be the best way to put it.

Luckily for him, he was used to picking up on subtle hints and had a lot of time on his hands. He vaguely wished that Fullmetal was on the scene, but he hadn't really seen him since the Calamity, as the government had officially labeled it as for use in their records. He would have enlisted him into the team in a second; he would both make a reliable asset on the battlefield as a combat alchemist, and would also be a talented investigator. But alas, he was nowhere to be found. Roy wasn't worried about him, though. He'd show up at some point, and Roy would deal with him at that time. Right now, that wasn't his problem.

His problem, presently, was Colonel Howard's reports. For some reason he was eluding to the terrorist organization that Colonel Heat was researching. It was almost as if… Well, that would explain why they were both having lunch together. They must've been working on the case together, a sort of joint operations between Internal Affairs and the Department of Terrorism. That's what scared him. Was it an inside job? Perhaps.

He suddenly saw the advantage to having a spy in both offices. Perhaps having Breda manage both of them was putting a little too much pressure on him, and might cause suspicion as to why he was only able to be at his post for half the week, but that suspicion would be lifted with a simple call to Breda's doctor. The order was official, and therefore was a viable reason to skip work. If it was prolonged, then that would raise too much suspicion, but he wasn't planning on leaving Breda in there long enough for that to happen. A few weeks, a month tops.

The problem with these reports was that there was far too little information in them, even with the implicated information. To fully comprehend them, one would have to possess the knowledge that the investigator possessed, and Roy did not have that. He did have the next best thing though. He had one of the authors.

Getting up from his desk, he walked the memorized path to his door and felt for is doorknob. He had a certain Colonel he needed to have a chat with. Indirectly of course, he wouldn't let his identity be known, but Heat already knew Armstrong so she would do all the talking.

"Lieutenant!"

"Sir!" Riza responded almost immediately, uniform as ever. It was actually reassuring. She was starting to get her composure back, her professionalism.

"I'm making a trip down to the Department of Terrorism, and I need you and Armstrong to accompany me." If it wasn't for Riza then he didn't know how he would have ever been able to stay in the military. Her unquestioning support and stubbornness when he had felt incompetent had kept him going, and out of the confines of depression. He required her for even the smallest of things, such as walking to a place that he didn't know where its location was, or feeding him information that he couldn't see.

"What do you have planned, Mustang?" said Armstrong suspiciously, doubting his actions. That was understandable. Heat, after all, was her problem as per his orders. By going in and interrogating him directly he would be doing the one thing that he had ordered her not to do; he would be compromising ROSE. But that, of course, was why he was dragging Olivier down with him. He needed to hear Heat answer a few questions, Armstrong would just be his mouthpiece.

"You were the one who suggested that Heat knows more than he's letting on. I simply want to drag that information out of him. That's why I need you with me, Armstrong."

"Isn't that why we sent Breda in? So we can snoop around unsuspectingly? If we start to probe them directly then they'll get suspicious."

"Breda isn't going to dig up anything from Heat, but I have a plan for that." He didn't need this questioning. He could fill them in on the details later. For now he just needed to get a feel for this Heat character, so he could make a decision on the best course of action.

Olivier couldn't help but question Mustang's motives. She had been working on getting information out of Heat off and on throughout the past week, and had been largely unsuspecting. She suspected that this time she would end up asking the questions that Mustang told her to, and she didn't know if that was the best idea. She didn't like the idea of all of her hard work going to waste.

However, when she had signed up for this job she had accepted the task to follow Mustangs orders indefinitely, and this seemed like one of the times when he would call her out on that. She didn't have a way out, and she would have to submit to his orders, weather she liked it or not.

* * *

It was awkward at first, walking with Mustang and Hawkeye. Mustang had a way of leaning on his subordinate, relying on her body to guide him through the halls. It reminded Olivier of a man she had once known who used a dog to guide him through the streets. Somehow that analogy fit them really well. Except Olivier knew from personal experience that Mustang wasn't incompetent enough to need that much contact to guide himself, thus the awkward feeling she had.

Suddenly she remembered back to the week before when her underlings had been talking about "their daily hour-and-half break", and she realized exactly what they meant by that.

"Armstrong, are you alright? You look like you've come down with a fever." _Damn, that woman is perspective. _She hadn't realized that she was so affected by such matters. Then again, the whole world of romance was somewhat foreign to her. Not that that was her fault…

"It's nothing, Lieutenant." She had denied that perhaps too fast, and she could see a smirk form across Mustang's lips. For a man who was unable to see, he was the furthest thing from blind that she could think of.

She chanced another glance at the two of them, and Mustang, with his smirk as wide as ever, slid his hand down Hawkeye's back to grab her ass, causing Olivier's face to flush once again, much to her irritation. Hawkeye, on the other hand, slapped Mustang across the face, and Mustang quickly removed his greedy hand. His smirk, however, was not lifted.

They finally got to the Department of Terrorism, and the three of them entered the section of the building, Armstrong separate from Roy and Riza. It made sense, of course. Armstrong and Roy weren't supposed to be together, and their operation had a potential to go sour if someone noticed the two of them together. In fact, Riza thought, why had they gone with Armstrong? That actually didn't make sense to her. After all, Armstrong was just going to drag Heat back to one of their proxy offices to interrogate him there, so why didn't they just go straight there?

"Sir, why –"

"Are we here instead of in room 117? I have few transfer papers I need to pick up for our own Heymans Breda. All in all were actually totally separate from Armstrong right now."

Right. She had forgotten that Breda was being "transferred" here for the time being. That actually gave them a legitimate reason for being here. Once they got the paperwork they headed down to their proxy interrogation room, room 117, to find Armstrong already inside with Colonel Heat. It was very obvious to her that by the questions that she was asking that she was just stalling for time. At Roy's order she went inside the room to pull Armstrong.

"Finally. Took you long enough, I was starting to run out of my fillers." Mustang casually told her what he wanted to ask him, leaving Armstrong somewhat dumbfounded by his strategy.

"What? Are sure you want this guy in our investigation team? I thought the whole idea of your little team was to get people who are 'undoubtedly loyal'. You don't even know this guy, and quite frankly he doesn't seem much like a keeper to me."

"I said your investigation team, not mine." Olivier blinked. Now that actually made sense, if he was getting at what she thought he was getting at.

"You're suggesting we make a fake team to keep this guy in check." She said to confirm her suspicions.

"Exactly." Now that did make a lot of sense. They would be able to control the information flow in, and they would be getting constant reports from him.

"Right. And if he declines?"

"We'll get him by force. But I'm sure you can make it sound appealing, Lieutenant General."


	6. Problems with Heat

**WOOO!!! Winter Break!!! So I've been drowning myself in fiction, fanfiction, movies (Avatar was a frickin' awesome movie by the way), television shows, and other forms of entertainment in an effort to find ways to write this. I had a sudden epiphany when reading an author's notes by MSD, and I think I know how to write this now.**

**By the way, you may have noticed my new avatar. That is not permanent. More than likely I'm going to go back to Snake, but for now I thought that maybe those who are reading this would like to get a good idea of what Felix looks like. Just note that I don't have Photo Shop and that I suck with colored pencils.**

**I'd also like to note that this IS NOT a romance fic. Yes, it does have (heavily) implied sexual relations of a Royi nature, but this is for plot reasons more than anything else. Just so you know.**

"Mr. X."

"So, you're Nikolas's replacement."

"Galia Sokolov, second in command under the late Nikolas Stephanovich."

"And now that Nikolas has been eliminated, you're first in command."

"Have you no respect for the dead?"

"Nikolas made a mistake, and in your line of business that puts you in the graveyard. If you don't realize that by now, then perhaps I should consider hiring somewhere more professional."

"Don't be ridiculous. We know the risks."

"Good. Now, Mr. Sokolov, onto business. I have another assignment for you. There is a formal military dinner this Wednesday in the Central Head Quarters."

"And you want us to crash the party."

"I think it's time for us to reveal our 'motive'."

* * *

"Yo, Hawkeye, are you free tonight?" Riza looked in the summoning direction of her least favorite E9 and couldn't help but feel a bit of joy in the prospect of declining him his offer.

"Unfortunately, Master Gunny, I have a date with General Mustang. I'll have to give you a rain check on that." It had been customary for her and Kellogg to spar every other night or so, ever since their first fight. As a standard rule, Riza tried to keep contact with the Master Gunnery Sergeant to a minimal, having labeled him as a psychotic super-killer, but she understood the necessity of training under him. Their first fight she had realized just how incompetent her hand to hand skills were, just above qualification, and she suddenly desired to improve in said area. While it was true that, as a sniper, immediate contact with the enemy was going to be at a minimal, it was still a skill that was worth having. _I might even be able to save Roy's ass with it one day._ Or her own, but that was an afterthought.

That being said, she would still take any legitimate opportunity to weasel out of their sparring, and a date with Roy was certainly legitimate. And there was no way that Kellogg would try to convince her out of a date with his Command, or else his Command would certainly hear that he was the cause of his empty bed that night.

"Unfortunately my ass. We both know that you can't stand being in a ten-foot radius of me." Well, he was certainly blunt. At least he didn't beat around the bush. It was almost refreshing to hear someone who spat out everything that they thought, got sick of having to constantly try to read peoples motives.

"Well Kellogg, spending an evening eating nice food and being told how beautiful I am is certainly more appealing than an evening of getting my ass handed to me by you." Kellogg looked amused by her statement. In the past month or so of being with him she had learned how to deal with him, and it certainly wasn't by getting mad at him.

"Neglect makes your blade dull. You of all people should know that, Sniper." She did know that, and better than most. She really wished that she didn't have to spar with him at all, but as he said if she didn't practice then she would get sloppy. Regardless, she wasn't about to turn down a night with her boyfriend for a night with Kellogg, no matter how sloppy she might get.

"Tomorrow. I can make it tomorrow."

"Whatever you say. Hope Command doesn't get too rough with you tonight; you usually don't fight as well when you're sore." True, the best way to deal with him was to not give into his quips, but that didn't mean that was easy.

Riza opened the door, letting Kellogg in, and followed him. In the few weeks that Armstrong and Kellogg had been assigned to the bogus investigation team, dubbed PROJECT: COLDFIRE (much to Riza's annoyance; if Roy could've come up with a more obvious name, then she would award him with a medal for creative stupidity) Riza was assigned to make regular checkups on them. Partially this was to save everyone on the paperwork, but Roy was also relying on her judgment. Roy would come himself, but he couldn't risk compromising ROSE; If Riza was seen then nobody would know who she was. Roy, on the other hand, was famous from the revolution, so someone was bound to recognize him.

He would have just assigned her to Coldfire, but he relied on her for too much; everything from filling out reports and battlefield Intel, to simpler things as walking and cooking. And, more than likely, he didn't quite trust his aide and lover to Heat. After observing him throughout the weeks, she didn't blame him.

"God, I want to slice that man's head off." Hawkeye's mouth turned up slightly in amusement. Olivier, who was, in official terms, Heat's CO, had the undesirable task of dealing with Heat the most.

"You know, I was kind of hoping that Heat wouldn't have been as big a cocksucker as Howard, but goddamn, he was probably his motherfuckin' ass-buddy." Hawkeye looked at Felix strangely and then dismissed her thoughts. _She's not used to Felix yet,_ Olivier thought.

"So, what do you have so far?" Riza asked. Felix responded before Olivier could give her report, lighting a cigarette.

"Well, apart from the fag trying to shove his ramrod up my ass-hole, the bastard's kindly done a wonderful job of skirting any _actual _work, and leading us in a bunch of little circles."

"Feeling a bit homophobic, are we?"

"I hate faggots. And he…" Felix pointed at Heat who was filling out a report behind their observation glass, implying the rest of his sentence, rather than saying it. Olivier knew from experience that there were few things that Felix hated more than homosexuals, murderers and hypocrites, so his disgust didn't surprise her.

"Obviously, we're going to need a full report. Do you have one filled out?" Hawkeye asked Olivier directly, making it clear that she was not addressing Felix.

"Yes, but not everything's in the report, so I'll have to fill you in orally. Can you take lunch?" Hawkeye nodded her head.

* * *

Hearing the side door open, Roy reached his hand out of the car, waiting for Riza to take it. He still felt like a fool doing it, but he couldn't manage otherwise. Roy was a gentleman, or at least used to be a gentleman, but now he couldn't even manage the simple things. It was awkward to be on the other side of courtesies that he would normally be the one offering.

Though, of course, that had scored his first date with Riza, so perhaps it wasn't all that bad.

Feeling his Lieutenant take his hand, he climbed out of the car, using Riza as his point of reference. It was all very… practical. She would lean against him as they walked so that he could walk straight up without a cane and not look a fool. However, she would still allow him the courtesies that he could manage, such walking on the curb side of the street and such, even though it didn't matter to her. Because it mattered to him.

He briefly wondered what she was wearing. She was no doubt gorgeous, as she always was in her civilian clothing, but it would've been nice to see her. He knew that she was wearing a form fitting satin dress. She wasn't wearing a covering, so the dress more than likely went all the way up her back, and as such more than likely covered any cleavage that would be showing. Not that he minded. He wouldn't be able to see it, so why should everyone else? It'd be nice to know what color it was though…

"It's blue, sir." Damn, she was perspective. Or maybe she just knew him too well. He had been feeling her dress, albeit in a non-sexual way, so she probably picked on the fact that he was sizing her up.

"Thank you Lieutenant. It's nice to know exactly how you look, otherwise I'm left with a horribly incomplete picture. Is this the place?"

"Did you make reservations at Terra Blu?"

"That'd be the one. After you, Milady." Riza walked into the doors that were held open by Roy and looked at him with concern. She supposed it was flattering when he did things like open doors for her, but it really just caused her to worry more than anything else. More than once he had tripped on something without her to guide him.

After their waiter escorted them to their table, Riza pulled the chair out for Roy and sat down herself. That was one thing that she would not allow him to do himself. She had once, and decided that it wasn't the best idea she had.

"We'll both have the in-house special." Another thing that they had worked out between themselves; they always either agreed on what they would have before they went or Roy would just let her order for him. That had never bothered him too much, however.

"Of course. And to drink?" That was a decent question. Wine would be the traditional choice, but Roy had a tendency to drink too much, and they were required to be on call twenty-four seven, so the last thing they needed was a drunk Command.

"Two Shirley-Temples." Roy frowned at her choice.

"Shirley-Temples?" She put her hand on his to silence him, before he could convince the waiter otherwise. It really was a shame he couldn't intimidate him with her looks anymore. "Whatever. Two Shirley-Temples." The waiter gave a quick bow and took his leave. She took his hand and placed a kiss on it. True, normally she wouldn't be as expressive about her love, but this was a date, after all. She would allow herself such frivolities.

Feeling her mouth on his hand, Roy suddenly felt very far away. It was, of course, customary for couples to sit across from each other, but this was one of the customs that Roy wanted to break. The only link he had was with her was her voice, and presently her hand, but other than that he might've well have been eating by himself. Seeking to remedy his problem, he gently started to scoot his chair around the table.

"Roy, what are you doing?" He was sure that he wasn't going in a bizarre direction; he guided himself around the table with his hand anchoring himself. But then, he supposed anyone would find it odd to see a man act the way he was in such a formal restaurant.

"I can't see you," he said simply, as if she hadn't been aware of the fact. "So I'm going to have to make do." He stopped when he was right beside her, and slid his arm through hers. Much better.

Riza felt touched by the simple gesture of affection. True, it would be a bit awkward eating with him next to her and still facing him, but she could deal with it. She briefly wondered what the waiters would think when they saw that they were not following proper etiquette. Not that it mattered.

The service was exceptionally fast, which she really should have expected. Another thing that she had expected, but had been hoping wasn't true, was the size of the entre. Honestly, she would have preferred to at a place of less esteem if it meant that the food was in larger proportions. Not to mention the cost of everything, the cost that she wouldn't know even if she _had _looked at the menu, because the prices wouldn't be listed. Roy may be a State Alchemist (his rank didn't do anything to hurt his standings, though admittedly his salary paled in comparison to his research grants) but she wasn't accustomed to tossing around money so carelessly. Thank god for her Military issue apartment, otherwise she probably wouldn't be able to afford to eat.

Of course, that didn't mean the food wasn't fantastic. She may not be able to survive on the small portions, but her tastebuds were certainly satisfied.

Riza ate, for the most part, in a companionable silence; quiet, but not awkward. They both knew that when they started to talk the conversation would inevitably shift to work. After all, they were already around each other almost constantly throughout the day, so they didn't really have anything new to share. This was more like R a break from the stresses of reality and a chance to be alone without the prying eyes of their comrades. Besides, work was their life. Roy might've had dates with various women before, but most of them were links in his spy network. Riza didn't even pretend. All of her friends were in the Military, or spouses of those in those in the Military.

Roy, however, felt very awkward. He kept trying to think of something that wouldn't lead to business, but always came up with a blank. He was overwhelmed by the sense that work was running his life, and that he wasn't the man of the same social standing that he used to be. He should at least be able to think of something that would strike up a strong, _non-work related _conversation. Nothing. Finally he gave in and spit something out just to rid them of the silence.

"So, how's the investigation with Heat going?" Damn. He really should have thought before he let his mouth loose. More than likely that would be the last thing she would want to talk about. He had heard Armstrong bitch about Heat on more than one occasion, and reading the repots he had on him hadn't exactly made him out be a man of strong character.

Riza smirked in amusement. As she thought, work had been the first thing he had brought up.

"Olivier doesn't trust him."

"I already know that."

"I don't trust him. He's a shady character at best. He spends his investigations going around in circles, and his reports are equally confusing. I can't tell if he's just an incompetent investigator, or if he's just trying to mislead us."

"And if he's trying to mislead us?"

"He's probably trying to take all the glory for himself." This sounded incredibly realistic to Roy. She was definitely right; his reports were meaningless to the naked eye, just babbling on about useless information that might seem important to the case. But he doubted he was incompetent.

"So what else is there?" Riza didn't want to talk about it anymore. She had written up a nice little report and had it translated to brail just for him, for the exact purpose of avoiding this conversion on their date. If they went on too much longer, then the General would take over and her evening would be ruined.

"There's desert." Roy couldn't help but be embarrassed.

"Of course. What would you like, Sweetheart?"

* * *

"Does he really bother you that much?" Felix looked over to Olivier and let out a frustrated grunt.

"Hell yiah he does. Dosen't he, you?" Olivier rolled her eyes and turned to the glass that they were observing Heat through.

"Not as much as you. If you had to deal with half the losers that I've had to, then maybe-"

"I have had to deal with half the losers that you have had to. I've just been able to send them to the Sar-Major when they get on my nerves too much. You, on the other hand, were the end of the line."

"You sleazy bastard," she said with a grin. She had known one of the Sergeant Majors who worked with him, and had also know how many people Felix tended to send his way.

"Okay, listen, this isn't working. This guy seems to be better at avoiding getting anything done than anything else. Honestly, it would surprise me that this prick became a Colonel if he's always like this, so I think he's just stalling. We need to figure out why."

"Any suggestions?" Felix thought for a moment. She briefly wondered if he was a good a fighter as he used to be, and then wondered where the thought had come from.

"Not really. To tell you the truth I wasn't planning on doing anything tonight, and instead training Hawkeye. Otherwise I would have thought about it more."

"Training Hawkeye? As in hand to hand training?" Felix gave a nod. Looks like he was still active. That was a relief. She hadn't had a decent fight since her quarrel over the Armstrong estate with her brother, and she hadn't had a _good_ fight since she had seen him last. "You still up for a spar? I'd be nice to get practice in."

"I'd thought you'd never ask."

"Just go easy on me. It's been a long time."

* * *

Olivier felt invigorated. True, she wasn't a match for Felix, and for that matter never had been, but it certainly felt good to let completely loose. Her predatory instincts were released, and she was thinking more clearly than she had in a long time. Their fight had only lasted about seven minutes, but her blood was still coursing through her veins. She was operating on overdrive, the adrenaline still fully active. As much as she desired to take another shot at taking down Felix, the solution to their problem had popped into her head in the middle of their fight, and she just needed to work the logistics out.

"Olivier, what the hell? Are you already out of energy? You really have gotten sloppy."

"Shut up, that isn't it at all. Listen, Felix, what the biggest problem we've had with Heat?"

"Well, a lot come to mind. First off he's an arrogant cocksucking sonuva-"

"Go to hell, Felix. You know what I mean." She couldn't stand the smirk that appeared on his face.

"Okay, fine. He won't give up anything that's in his head. I think it's pretty evident that he has everything locked away upstairs, but he refuses to give any of it up."

"Exactly. We can send him on all the missions we want, we can read all the reports he produces, we and ask his opinion on every damn issue we have, but the prick will just keep leading us in circles."

"And your solution?"

"A stake out. I think that he's still looking into all of this, but he's just doing it all on his own time. If I'm right then-"

"Yeah, I think you _are _right. So who's gunna get the short straw?" Olivier looked at him as if to say 'who do you think?' "Ah, hell no. You know I can't do a stake out. All that sitting get's on my nerves, and that could very likely in in him dead. Neither of us want that."

"It won't be a stake out so much as an observe and report. Your better at stealth than any of the rest of us. And he'd better not end up dead."

"Come on, Olivier…"

"That's an order, Kellogg." Felix looked away in defeat. Yes, she was definitely right. That was the best way to go, but goddammit, he didn't want to play stalker. He always got too impatient and found it had to keep his hands to himself. But he wasn't about to go and disregard a direct order.

"Fine. I'll just need to find someone to take care of Pride."

**I'm finding it very hard to keep myself from just writing Felix the whole time. I think at this point it'd be a good thing to mention that yes, I did refer to him a mix of Kimblee and Bradly, but I just want to make it clear that that was not an evaluation of his character. That was something I actually added as an afterthough, after I had his character built up in my mind. So yeah. Anyway, Review, review, review, as usual.**


	7. The Inaguration of Mrs Brulexa

**Damn Christmas. Nothing makes a shitier Holiday than being dragged all the way from Seattle to Detroit, just to get to Kansas City (if that makes sense to you, then you're better than I), and not only spending 5 ½ on the motherfucking plane, but the in-flight movie was Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. I would have had more fun dragging razor blades through my wrist than watching that damn movie. It honestly felt like I was reading a crappy piece of FanFiction ("ohhh waaaa, Ron was kissing soandso and I'm an emotion driven teenaged girl waaaa" "Ginny was kissing whatsthatfag, so I'm depressed too, Hermione waaaa). Then, to top it all off, at the end of the plane ride my body was all like "HEY! You're bulimic now!" so that was barrels of fun, hoboy. Not to mention now I'm Kansas, which is my FAVORITE place in the whole damn planet, I just love the flat scenery and sub-zero weather, that makes me think I'm going to get frostbite whenever I step outside, hoboy, I can't think of ANYWHERE I'd rather be than here…**

**Now that I've bitched about my wonderful vacation to my heart's content (well, I could probably go on for another four pages, but I'll spare you) Here's another chapter! Hopefully I'll get it done tonight so that I can claim that it's a Christmas present. (I did get a bowler hat, and that makes me happy inside yaybowlerhat)**

"Get me out of there."

"You're just saying that."

"Come on, General, it's pointless. Everything that Howard reported you've read, and nobody in there knows anything about him that's not already in the reports. There is no reason for me to be dicking around in IF."

"You haven't given me anything on his case. Not _anything_. Do you honestly expect me to believe that he was the only one working the case? What about his assistants?"

"He was working on it by himself."

"So that's it."

"That's it."

"…"

"Listen, I'm no done digging around the D.O.T. yet, but IF is dry. And anyway, it's been enough time for them to start to get curious as to why I'm gone half the week when there's _clearly_ nothing wrong with me."

"Okay then, keep on working in the D.O.T., but I'll pull you from IF. You better not make me regret this, Breda."

"I won't, sir."

"Just don't forget to pick up the medical release forms on your way out."

"They're already filled out, sir."

* * *

Kain looked down at the miserable looking creature in pity. Truthfully, Kain liked to stay away from the office as much as much as he could lately; the General had granted him, as far as he was concerned, unlimited resources to tinker with his equipment with the intent to solidify their communications structure. Though, admittedly, that was simply the excuse that he liked to use for himself. The truth was that Master Gunnery Sergeant Kellogg was an old commander of his, back while he was working in one of the Western Outposts, and he still felt a bit shy around him. He had had a way of putting Kain on the spot while he was working under him.

"Ah, Sergeant Fuery-" Hawkeye stopped in midstride and turned her attention to the animal in front of him. "Um, Sergeant Fuery, did you pull that… cat?... off the streets?" Kain looked back at the cat in front of him and sighed. The cat was missing a leg, eye, and its tail. He could definitely see why Hawkeye would think that: if he had seen him on the streets then he _would have_ brought him back to the office.

"Actually, Lieutenant, he was in here before I got here. I don't know what I should do with him, but I don't think I can throw him out." The more he thought about it, the more got worried about the poor thing. The last time there had been an animal in the office Hawkeye had been the only one who had been in the position to take care of it, and now that she had a dog she wouldn't be able to. Hayate would eat the thing alive.

Of course, the first thing he would have to do was figure out why it was in here to begin with. In fact, that was a really good question. How had a little crippled cat manage to get into the top-secret, well hidden ROSE HQ? Obviously someone had brought it in who worked in the office. But if it wasn't himself, then who was it? He hadn't seen Al since their Rebellion, so he doubted it was him…

"Well, wherever it came from, it seems to have taken a liking to you, Sergeant."

"What can I say? Animals tend to warm up to me quickly," he said, as the cat jumped into his lap and started to press himself against his stomach. Suddenly a thought came to his mind. "Can we keep him? Inside the office, I mean. After all we don't have the rules holding us down saying we can't anymore, now that we're…"

"I think that'd be a bit of an abuse of power, Sergeant," Hawkeye said, hesitantly. He could tell that she felt as bad for the animal as he did, even if she didn't want to admit it. He wondered that it he pressed the issue, then she would be lenient. Suddenly, before he responded, the cat leapt from his lap and up on one of the cabinets. For being so disfigured, it was surprisingly agile.

Not two seconds after it had made it to the top, the door opened to reveal his old Master Gunnery Sergeant. As soon as he walked through the door, the cat jumped onto his head, holding onto his beret with his two font legs, and seemingly smothering him with his body.

"Fuck- Damn Cat!" MGySgt Kellogg yelled in surprise befor he grabbed the cat from his face, and tried to throw it away from himself. Despite his attempts, however, the cat held onto his arm strongly, resisting the force by clawing into the wool that his uniform was made of. He took his hand and made an effort to pry the cat off his forearm, and was successful. He held the cat by the scruff of his neck and was about to start to shake him, before Kain interrupted, pleading with him.

"Sir, please don't do anything mean to him! He's just a poor crippled cat, and you surprised him." The man and the cat turned to him with a seemingly blank look. "I don't think that he can take much more abuse, the poor things injured enough."

"Who, Pride? No, Pride's fine. Healthy as a mule, despite that fact he's a cat." Pride? Who would name this animal Pride? Wait, how did Kellogg know the cat?

"Um, sir, is this your cat?" The idea was absurd, but he couldn't help but ask the question.

"'Course he is. I'm about to leave for a few days, and he needs a place to stay. I hope you don't mind Lieutenant." Kain turned to Hawkeye, who was being addressed. He noted that Kellogg had already noticed that Hawkeye was the one who ran the office. It had been the way it worked before the Revolution, and it certainly hadn't changed with Mustangs' blindness.

"How long will it be for?"

"Just a few days. I'll be back before the military ball on Wednesday, but until then I'm not sure if he can survive on his own." Hawkeye looked at him somewhat suspiciously and then sighed in defeat. She took the cat from Kellogg and placed it in her arms, stroking it affectionately.

"I must say, Kellogg, I didn't expect you for a cat person."

"Oh, I'm just raising it for food. Where do you think its hind leg ran off to?" Kellogg laughed at both of their silent, but visible, reactions.

* * *

An hour later, Felix returned to the office with the gear that he had gathered in preparation for his mission. As much as he wanted to put all the new weapons they had gotten through a field test, he knew that he couldn't weigh himself down too much. Besides, he more than likely wouldn't be in the position to use deadly force, so that eliminated any large rifles. He had opted for a Thompson A1 submachine gun, a gun that the Amestrian Military had been too cheap to contract, but was much more reliable and powerful than their own stamped mp40s. In his tan three piece suit and his fiddle case, of which held his Thompson, he looked like nothing more than a professional musician. He had also grabbed a pair of NVG's, in case Heat's investigation turned nocturnal, a pair of binoculars, and a directional mic, all of which fit nicely next to his partially disassembled gun.

As he entered back into the office, he heard his cat let out a gentle meow and run himself against his pant leg. He was half expecting the thing to attack him again, but the cat usually knew to not mess around with him while he was in his suit. Thank goodness for that.

"So, was my little Pride good enough to earn the pity of the Lady Sniper?" he said, now holding his cat so that they were both looking in Hawkeye's direction.

"If it's just for a few days, then it will be fine, Master Gunnery Sergeant. So long as he pulls his weight, of course." Felix didn't miss the sarcasm from the statement.

"Pride may seem incompetent, but rest assured; he manages just fine. He'll do his duty as house kitty."

Riza couldn't help but be baffled at Kellogg's behavior, though she refrained from showing it. Though he approached most everything with a bizarre mix of bitterness and self-indulgence, he showed genuine adoration for the cat. She wouldn't have thought that he wouldn't have cared for any living thing, much less such a seemingly weak creature as was Pride. At first, she almost let herself believe that he was actually just raising the thing to eat it.

Pride leapt down from Kellogg's arms and wandered off to a corner of the room. Suddenly a thought dawned upon her. "Kellogg, he is potty trained right?" No animal ever peed on her office floor twice.

"Uh, yeah, but I haven't brought his litter box in…" Riza gave him a look that told him that it she ended up with a mess to clean up, then he would be added to the mess. She was satisfied when he quickly went to retrieve his cat to save her carpet. Maybe he was intimidated by her. Or more than likely he was trying to score points so his cat wouldn't be thrown out. Not that it would. She had taken pity on the cat the second she had seen it in her office, and had no intention of leaving it to the elements.

* * *

Olivier stared at the man across from the desk with the usual professional distaste. When she was completely honest with herself she was glad to be doing this. The prospect of a good three days without Heat was certainly enticing, but she couldn't let onto that. They had to continue to play their little game, and that required her to act like she was doing this against her better judgment.

"Alright, Colonel, here's the deal. Head Quarters requires anyone on active duty, which you fall under as an investigator, to be able to take a half-a-week leave of absence this time of year due to 'stress management' or some other bullshit like that."

"I'm aware of that. I was wondering if you were ever going to bring it up, actually. The vast majority of my commanding officer's tend to simply ignore that ordinance." That was because no one gave two shits about it, and it had been placed there, more than likely, by some incompetent asshole who simply wanted an extended vacation.

"Yeah well, I'm under a lot scrutiny here to see how I've adjusted from Briggs, so I'm going to half to give you recess. Of course, and this is completely off the record, that doesn't mean that your reports are scheduled any later."

"But General, you have my next report due on this Tuesday." Olivier rolled her eyes.

"Hmmm. It appears I do. Well, that sucks for you, well doesn't it? Looks like you have a lot of work you'll have to do in the thirty seconds before I dismiss you for your vacation." Heat looked at her through his grey and red eyebrows and growled.

"General, I'm pretty sure that violates the Ordinance, as that would have me working on overtime, and from the center of the section it clearly specifies-"

"Actually, Colonel, there is nothing in it anywhere that states that I can't specify deadlines that I deem appropriate in the time before your vacation. Truthfully, I find that men are able to get the most done while against the clock. Five seconds." She started to count down on her hand.

"Quite honestly I'm surprised you would be audacious enough-"

"Time's up, colonel, and I must say that I'm impressed by your ability to multitask. To think that you've investigated the case, written a report, and argued with me whether or not you had to or not, all in the deadline I gave you is truly remarkable. I look forward to reading your report on Tuesday when you get back from your vacation. Dismissed."

* * *

"Be advised, Foxtrot, target is en route."

Felix brought the Comsat that hung around his neck closer to his mouth under the guise of tightening the scarf that concealed it.

"Copy, C2, what's the target's ETA?"

"Five minutes, assuming the target does not stop for any pleasantries. Expect five, but be prepared for thirty."

"Copy that."

"Foxtrot, I'm going to go white until I can get to the Comm Center, estimated seven minutes, if you need anything , relay it through CommChief."

"Roger, C2" Felix continued to wait outside the Central HQ gat entrance, ready to tail Heat when he saw him leave. It was a particularly cold day, and a thin layer of snow blanketed the ground, the air turning his breath into fog. He stood around a fire with a couple of other people, trying to attract as little attention to himself as possible. Though, he probably wouldn't be taken for Military with his side swept hair that was normally concealed by his Military style beret now out in the open, and the violin case strapped to his back.

Suddenly he saw an older red haired man in uniform step out of the gates, and quickly indentified him as Heat. "CommCheif, this is Foxtrot, I've identified the target, pursuit is underweigh."

* * *

Olivier quickly made her way to the janitor's closet that housed ROSE HQ, and let herself in. With any luck Heat wouldn't have made it out by now, but more than likely that wouldn't be the case. He thoughts were confirmed when she walked into the communications room to here the dialog between their Commcheif and Felix, before Fuery addressed her directly.

"C2, Foxtrot has made contact with the target." He said, too absorbed in his role as CommChief to break the language of the mission.

"Copy that CommChief. Foxtrot, do you have the target in your L.o.S.?"

"Affirmative, C2. I have a visual." His voice sounded a bit different over the creeky Comsat and projected through the loud speakers in the Comm Room. Suddenly the door swung open to reveal Mustang.

"Armstrong what the hell do you think you're doing?" He looked really pissed off, and his voice backed up his features. He grabbed a Comsat, how he managed to, Olivier couldn't quite decide, and barked at Fuery to connect him with Kellogg.

"Hello, Eva, this is Roy," he said in a sickly sweet voice. The room stayed silent for an unbelievably long moment as both Olivier, and more than likely Felix, stood confused and slightly amused at the way their Command was taking. Olivier heard Mustang mutter a curse under his breath as he waited for Kellogg's response.

Frustratingly, still before Kellogg responded, Mustang flipped the mic on his Comsat off and turned to Olivier.

"Dammit, Olivier, there is a reason why you aren't supposed to talk like you're in the Military. There could be people listening. Didn't we go over this when you first came in?" Well, yes they had, but she had thought (was hoping) that he was being sarcastic when he told her she was going to go by the name of "Mrs. Brulexa", but now it seemed that he had been completely serious. Damn.

She was about to respond before she heard Felix over the speakers in the type of crappy female voice impression that only a man could conjure up.

"Oh, hi Roy I dint' realize you were there, darling." Mustang sighed in relief when Felix responded, despite the high pitched obviously-faked voice. If they were going to be using it for everything, then she would have talk to him about that voice, but for now it would do.

It's so nice to talk to you-ow wait, my superior is coming down to check on me, so I gotta go. Say hi to Mrs. Brulexa for me when she calls, m'kay?"

Mrs. Brulexa. It was going to be a long mission; there was no doubt about that.

**Okay, a bit shorter than I would like, but at the same time, it did what I wanted it to do. I honestly have no idea what day it is, other than I know it is the 27****th**** I think, but as far a weekday, it could be friday, or monday, I really don't know.**

** So a sortof belated Christmas gift: a cat with three legs, one eye, and no tail (Okay, so Pride (no relation with the homunculous Pride of course) wasn't originally intended to fll on Christmas, but he did, so whatever) . Well, anyway, I hope you find this chapter adequate, and the wheels are in gear for the end of Act One (The entire fic will be *about* twenty chapters, 10 for Act One, and Ten for Act Two *maybe*, but then I'll write another one to finish it up, if feedback is positive enough) Anyway, REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW!**

**P.S., I just realized; this is a big day for me! as of tomorrow my first fic I published, Two Ranks, will expire from my Document Manager! WOOT! I feel like I'm making the step from 9 years old to 10 years old all over again!**


	8. The Night of the Military Ball

**READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED:**** I'm honestly not sure if I should rate this M or not. There is a scene at the end that is QUITE graphic, if only for a few paragraphs.**

"_Hello?" _

"Yes, Hello? This is Colonel Benjamin Heat, of the Department of Terrorism, team Coldfire. I-"

"_Coldfire? We don't have a Coldfire listed?"_

"Hmmm? That's odd. Are you sure? Room 117, under Lt. General Armstrong."

"_I don't recognize it, but I'll check the records."_

"…"

"_Ah, never mind. I suppose we just haven't worked with them much. I have your team's records right here."_

"Ah. Marvelous. Well, I need to call in a sick day for tomorrow. I'm feeling very under the weather, so I don't believe I'll be able to make it."

"_No problem, Colonel. I'll give them a call right away."_

"Would you mind? I don't want to be of any convenience."

"_Of course, Hon. That's what I'm here for."_

_

* * *

_

Felix sat atop the rooftop building across from Heat's apartment, waiting in forced patience. These past two days had been hopelessly uneventful, and he was getting desperate to alleviate his boredom. _Not a stake out my ass._ He had spent nearly the entire time camped out in his nest, watching his target through his binoculars do paperwork. Everything he had heard through his directional mic had been as unsubstantial as pen scratches and radio noise.

This was his last night on duty, thankfully. He was supposed to track Heat up to the Military Ball, but Mustang had given him explicit orders to pull security at the Ball, and his orders superseded anything given by Olivier. Thank God. His legs hurt from being in the same position for so long. He wasn't sure if he would be able to stand another day of this.

Who was he kidding? Of course he would be able to stand it, even if he wouldn't be happy about it. Hell, if it was his orders, then he would damn well make sure that he enjoyed himself. He was a soldier, and orders were orders. Obeyed without question.

Lightly, he heard noise come through his ear bud that was attached to the directional mic. ("Hello? This is..enjamin… oldfire") A pause. He was no doubt on his phone. This very well could be what he was waiting on. ("At's odd…utenant Genera…mstrong") another pause. Shit. Either this was a call to work, or a call about work. Good thing the directional mic he was using wasn't a grade A piece of shit… ("Under the weather…") Well that was clear as day. He couldn't make anything out after that, but that was enough. Enough to determine if he was taking to HQ, or talking in code, at least.

"Hello? Kara? This is Eva again. Is Mrs. Brulexa there?" Over the past few days Felix had gotten down the female imitation voice to what, he believe, was believable. It was at least better than it had been at first.

"Sure thing, Eva." Fuery, it appeared, had not. He waited for a couple of seconds for him to call in Olivier, who was obviously out of the room. Lucky her; she wasn't stuck all day waiting for Heat to make a move that he never made. He would have to ask Hawkeye how she was able to lay in wait for hours, or days on end without so much as moving a muscle. However they did it was beyond him. All he knew was that he would never be able to be a sniper. The technical prowess he might have, but he certainly didn't possess the patience.

"This is Mrs. Brulexa." She still hadn't quite gotten used to the whole concept of "playground talk". At first she had made an effort to sound more feminine, but had quit when Mustang started laughing at her and told her that her girly voice was almost worse than his own. Truthfully that had given a sting to Felix's pride. If his imitation was worse than Olivier's… "What's your situation?"

"Hi Olga, It's Eva. I just found the most _adorable _teddy bear." Silence from the other line. Clearly they had no clue as to where he was going with this. "Well, when I say 'saw' I really mean my boyfriend told me about it. Well, actually I heard my boyfriend talk about it over the phone-"

"Right. Tell me about it." She sounded like a goddamned psychiatrist. Well, at least they knew where he was going with this.

"Well, apparently it's this beautiful shade of olive, and has these three silver stars sewn onto the arms, and-"

"I know what you're talking about. I've seen it in the store."

"Well, anyway, he was going to bring it to work, but he's not feeling good, I think. He might have to take a sick day tomorrow."

"Right. Thanks for telling me, Eva. I'll keep that in mind."

"Well, I'm sure he'll be fine. Probably'll be able to make it on Thursday. Anyway, I gotta go, Olga. You know how it is."

"Of course. Call me if you need anything."

Good. Heat had put his request in one end, now it was their job to make sure it checked out. If it didn't then Olivier's name was dropped for some reason. Perhaps he was suspicious of her? That would make a lot of sense. If he thought that Olivier was involved in the terrorist plot then that was a good reason for his level of cooperation. He wouldn't want to give her all of his real research, because then she would know how to evade him.

But then, all of his musings were invalid if Heat's call was an actual request; if it showed up on the other side then that's all it was. If it didn't… well that would be good reason to investigate further. Either way, it made things more complicated. Talking in code was one thing, but Heat wasn't sick. If he was requesting a day off, then it was most likely because he thought he was being tailed and wanted a time to do everything when he wasn't being spied on.

* * *

Olivier was, at this point, faced with an interesting problem. In front of her was the sheet of paper that informed her that Heat was going to be absent the following day per sick day, and in the office down the hall sat a man who insisted that Felix ran security at the Military Ball. The problem, of course, was that Heat was clearly wasn't sick. Heat was out maneuvering them, and doing a damn good job of it.

What was he playing at? He clearly didn't trust them, that much was clear. So the question was; why not? The obvious answer was that he was suspicious of them, but Olivier didn't think that was case. The reports he had made before they sucked him up into Coldfire showed the exact same problems. So he was more than likely just suspicious of everyone. That piece fit better into the puzzle.

So he was waiting for the Wednesday Military Ball to take action, most likely because he knew that if anyone was tracking him, then they would have a higher likely hood of not being on his tail on that day. Luckily for him, he was right. The thing that irritated her the most was that, yes, she was trailing him, yes she had created the entire team with the sole purpose manipulating him, but it wasn't because they were the enemy. They all wanted to achieve the same end, but he wouldn't cooperate.

Which, of course, brought her back to her original problem. She didn't have a man to cover Heat with Felix gone. Why did Roy have to be so stubborn?

He had made it clear that Felix did not belong to her on Wednesday, and that no one belonged to her on Wednesday. That included her, of course. In fact, Roy was being ridiculously paranoid about the whole thing. She supposed, when she thought about it, it made sense. If the terrorist cell they were tracking was targeting the Military, then the Ball on Wednesday would be the ideal opportunity for an attack.

So she had to drop Heat for the time being. Right now she didn't have time to find a new tail, much less one that she trusted like she trusted Felix. She had to organize the entire under table security outfit that Mustang was demanding, and she had to do it without using the 'Eye' of ROSE. Really, more than likely, Mustang was doing this all for Hawkeye in the first place; he probably was afraid of him and his assistant showing up to a gunfight with a knife, hypothetically. So they'd be the gun.

Mostly she had the enlisted to work with. That was another problem she had, but mostly she had herself to blame for it. Felix was the head of the Enlisted, and as such she had no clue as to who was good at what. As usual, that meant a lot of forms and profiles she had to read through. She sighed and grabbed a large stack to start to sort through. One by one, she would read through them, and one by one she would assign tasks

* * *

Riza looked through her closet in preparation for the Night's dance. There were three things she needed: a dress, a gun, and a nice bottle of perfume for Roy to enjoy. The dress was probably the least important; It was simply for others to acknowledge that she was Roy's woman, and that they needed to keep their hands off (both her and Roy), and for Roy to run his hands up and down like he liked to do. The perfume, of course was much more important; that's was all for Roy, and was the biggest way for him to appreciate her, and still remain decent in public.

And the gun, of course, was the most important of all, and was most definitely not for Roy. She had pulled her gun on him only once, and fully intended to never do it again. The number one rule for gun handling: never point a gun at something you do not intend to destroy, or someone you do not intend to kill. That one time had affected more than anyone would ever know.

But enough of those thoughts. She would get nowhere if she just dwelled on the past all day. No was the present, and at the present she had to find a dress. The biggest thing she had to keep in mind when looking for something adequate was that it couldn't be revealing enough for her back to show, and it had to be concealing enough for her to be able to holster a pistol without anyone being able to tell where it was being kept. Not that she minded. Despite behavior that wasn't exactly within the protocols of proper office conduct, she was no skank. She preferred to dress on the modest side.

She liked black. While she didn't have an affinity to the darker sides of things, like some thought the color implied, nor was she in the process of grieving as the color _did_ in fact imply, she always thought that the color did a lot to accentuate the curves of her body that Roy insisted she had. If she was completely honest with herself she would have preferred to wear the heavy wool of her formal Military jacket and skirt, but she knew that Roy hated them. She had worn them to a formal dance before, back when Roy still had his eyesight, and it had been and endless night of moaning and bitching, him constantly complaining that he she never let him see enough of her. If he had made one or two comments about it, then that would have been one thing, flattering even, but he hadn't stopped at one or two comments. Or twenty, for that matter.

Though, she hadn't worn her formal Military attire to a dance after that, so she supposed that his rotten attitude had paid off.

The dress she chose was, in fact black, and reached the floor with a long slit going up the side of the leg. That was one of the requirements she had for dresses, and it wasn't for the reason that Roy liked to imagine that it was. The slit allowed for ease of access to the thigh holster that she preferred on account of their position in relation with her hand, and the reasonably subtle aspect of their placement. Men's eyes rarely wandered along her, and when they did, they never stayed in one place for long. Not to mention the white sash that she would keep tied around her waist could be brought down to cover the area where the holster would reside.

Next was the gun she would take. Not one of the large caliber automatics that the Military tended to favor, nor the four pound behemoth revolver the Kellogg had given her a month or so back. To keep something adequately concealed on her person, she would have to go small. Walther was probably the best way to go, though she did have a certain endearment to Fabrique National. The problem with going FN this time was that she didn't have anything small enough that packed a large enough punch. But, she did have that 9mm Black Matt PPK, which would blend in nicely with her dress. So Walther it was.

She took a look of longing at the .44 S&W Magnum that had belonged to Felix. Perhaps she could fit in her purse.

And of course, the perfume. That was the easiest. She would use Roy's favorite, which she kept in her top drawer and only used for formal occasions.

"Hmm. You smell good, darling." Roy came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Are you ready?" She turned around in his arms and gave him a light kiss.

"Do you have your gloves?" He rolled his eyes and lifted his hands up to reveal his whit flint cloth gloves marked with a simple black circle.

"I don't know why you insist on me having these, Riza. I can't use my flame alchemy if I can't see." She adjusted his tie, which had been horribly misaligned, and replied.

"Just humor me. I don't want you to be _completely _useless if we get separated."

* * *

"And don't you just look _stunning_." Olivier looked up expectantly, the form of Felix Kellogg filling her eyes. Dick. He had no right to say anything, he was dressed the same as her. "You know, for being supposedly undercover security at a Military function, you sure are subtle. My dear, do you even _own_ a dress?" Perhaps he was right. A simple look around would prove what he was saying to be true. Every female officer was in a fancy long dress, some more revealing than others, and every male officer was dressed in their Formal Military Outfit, a tuxedo, or at least a three piece suit. Everyone who wasn't dressed as such was the official security, save for him and her.

"Hypocrite. Your dressed just as poorly as I am."

"And I smell real pretty, too." Ah. So that's where that stench was coming from. Felix sighed an exaggerated, yet somewhat sincere, sigh. "The truth is that I haven't had a moment's opportunity to do anything relatively hygienic in three days. Which is, of course entirely your fault."

"Speaking of which, did you manage to dig anything up?"

"No, but I did follow Heat to the scene."

"Scene? What scene?" Felix made a dramatic movement to the side with his arm and directed her to their favorite middle-aged Colonel.

"Now, if you excuse me, I have a three piece suit to put on and an assortment of knifes, guns, and other implements of destruction to hide in it." She watched Felix exit stage left and turned to the crowd in front of her. She had been here for a good thirty minutes already, and was starting to get worried about when he was going to show. As security, these crowds were a nightmare. Luckily, however, her boss had yet to show his face, so when he arrived at the scene she would have the maximum number of men on the floor, and more importantly, she would have Felix.

"Olivier, how nice it is to see you." And that would be the man of the hour. Fashionably late, of course, mainly for her to get her men into place.

"Roy, always a pleasure." This formal, gentleman and lady speak disgusted her. She favored being strait forward and two the point, rather than verbally sparring, saying things that everyone knew they didn't mean, and the ins and outs of proper moral code. All of this bureaucratic bullshit. Of course, she would have to abide by it, it was the best way to remain inconspicuous in a situation like she was in. Felix was right; she should have worn a dress.

"I'd be honored if you'd oblige me with a dance, so long as you're up to it." Olivier couldn't tell it he had been talking to her or his pet dog. She had a large amount of respect for Hawkeye, but her life seemed to revolve around Mustang. However, Hawkeye seemed to be perfectly content with her man dancing with Olivier. Perhaps she didn't see her as a threat. Olivier chuckled to herself at that thought. Damn right she wasn't a threat. The prospect of dealing with Roy Mustang as anything but a boss or colleague sent shivers down her spine. However, this dance wasn't meant for pleasure, it was a more than likely a business meeting, and clearly Hawkeye was well informed of it.

Olivier extended her elbow out to Mustang and had to nudge his hand a bit to cue him to take it. She led him out to a corner of the dance floor and took the lead. She didn't, however, know how to lead the conversation, so she took a wild stab at it.

"I, uh, ran into Mrs. Brulexa the other day," she started, uneasily.

"Cut the code, it'll just raise more suspicion. Anyway, if you think I'm the only one with uncover security here, then you haven't been very observant." She _had_ been observant, and she _had_ noticed an abnormally large amount of Corporals, Sergeants, and Warrant Officers here, all which she somehow doubted would be spending their day of leave socializing with the bigwigs.

"I did know, as a matter of fact. Is this the way these social events usually go?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Everyone in Central tends to be Careerist Paranoid pigs, who think they'll have an edge when push comes to shove."

"Not much unlike yourself, General Mustang." He smirked at this. Her words were true, and he knew it. Hell, he reveled in it.

"No, not unlike myself. There is, however, one big difference."

"And what is that?"

"I _will _have an edge when push comes to shove." Well, he was right. He had sent out to handpick the best, and he had gotten the cream of the crop, so to speak. "Speaking of which, where is Felix?"

"He's in the bathroom freshening up-" Gunshots. Dammit, Mustang had been right to increase his security outfit to what he had. She had doubted him, but he was in charge, thank god for that this time.

She immediately slammed her Commanding Officer to the floor and pulled out her Saber, surveying the scene. About twenty men were entering the room, all dressed in black from head to toe, armed with automatic rifles. The dance was getting a whole lot more interesting by the minute.

* * *

Felix ran his hands through his hair and made sure everything was up to par. His suit still fit as well as it ever had, the tan material stretching over his form comfortably, tight enough to be appropriate for the occasion, yet loose enough when the suit coat was open to allow for fluid active movement. He slid a .45 into his shoulder holster and slid his KA-BAR military knife into the sheath on the other side of his torso. Hopefully he wouldn't need them, but it never hurt to be prepared, sans the physical pain of his knife when it dug into his side.

He straightened his tie, slipped on his suit coat and placed his beret on his head before hearing the _tacka-tacka-tacka_ of automatic gunfire. Instantly, the warrior took over, relinquishing control of his body to instinct.

Without making a sound, Felix dashed out of the Men's Room and looked in the hall for potential threats. Down the hall and turning the corner a man adorned in black, all the way from his combat boots to the balaclava that covered his face, turned the corner. He carried a shortish looking rifle made half out of wood and half out of metal with a curved banana clip. Felix recognized the rifle, but didn't have the time to remember where. The man was being careless, the rifle hanging lazily to his side, and was obviously headed to the bathroom. Felix quickly pivoted back around the corner he had just come from, and withdrew both his pistol and his combat knife. The gun would be as a resort method, but the knife was the preferred choice here. The man was obviously one of many, and if Felix could take him out without alerting his comrades, then all the better.

He could hear the man's hurried footsteps approaching him, and got an easy picture of where he was by listening for the volume of the steps, and by the frequency of them. Felix absently shifted his pistol to his left hand and his knife to his right. Odds were greatly in his favor that he wouldn't need to resort to his pistol, and if he did then he would still be able to easily take him out from the short distance.

The man got to the corer and started to turn it when Felix lashed out. He elegantly yet forcefully spun the terrorist around placed his hand around his face so that any screams for help or surprise would be lost in a search for oxygen. Quickly, he jammed his knife into the man's lower back, feeling it tear greedily through the many layers of assorted fabric and into his spinal column. With a sharp jerk to the side he forced the blade into his kidneys.

Felix released the man from his grasp, letting him slump to the ground effectively removing the knife from his body in the process. Blood spewed from the open injury, soaking Felix's leg in the delightfully warm substance. He took a deep breath and let the emotion of the situation sink in. The heavy smell of the blood was lazily being taken by his nostrils, and Felix's heart started pumping faster. He needed more. He needed to sin his blade into someone again. He looked at his drenched hand and involuntarily licked at the crimson liquid.

All five of his senses were flaring from the blood. The smell of the iron in the air, the taste of the man's life, the sight of the slumped body on the ground surrounded in bright red fluid, the feel shiver the man had given when he had slid his knife in his body and now the warm liquid left on his hands in the aftereffect. Bloodlust. That was definitely what this was. His barriers that he maintained had been toppled down and Felix needed more.

He grabbed the rifle that the man had been using and tossed in the bathroom for later observation. The high that he was running off of wouldn't allow for such an examination, nor would it permit him to use the gun. The pleasure that his knife offered him was too great. He needed it, badly.

He started to slither down the hallway, silent as the grave, when he saw another man in black. He was conveniently facing the other way, giving Felix the perfect opportunity to surprise him for his unchecked six.

Then, out of nowhere, another man turned the corner in front of them both, Felix in full sight of him.

_Shit._

The man rose up his rifle and unleashed a hail of molten led, not compensating for the recoil, nor the fact that his comrade stood in his line of fire. The man that Felix had been sneaking up on fell backward from the force of the bullets before Felix himself felt the metal smash into his body. Felix slumped against the wall, looked at the blood that was flowing out of his chest like miniature waterfalls and slumped to the ground, allowing the white light and warm feeling to monopolize his conscious mind.

**I'm sure you can see what I meant by "Graphic". This issue I face is that when something is rated M, at least on FF, one pretty much assumes it's because it contains a Lemon, but by the rules, I'm sure this would fall under the M section. If anybody feels strongly about this, please tell me and I'll change it.**


	9. The Official Gun of Drachma

**So I'm really sorry this took me so long to put out. I'm not sure how satisfied with it I am, but I wanted a climatic finale for Act One, so I just went with it.**

"Ah, Khalid. I've been expecting you. It's been a while since our last visit."

"My name isn't Khalid. I thought I made that clear the last time I came here."

"Khalid is the name I gave you through your father. Whether you agree or not, you will always truly be Khalid."

"Fuck that."

"You used to have more respect for your Lord, Khalid. The first time you met me you could barely speak, much less utter such profanities. You could at least try to be civil, if not eloquent."

"Yeah well this isn't the first time I met you, so your just gunna have to deal with what you got, Ishy."

"Hmm. It would appear so. Perhaps you're not ready to stay, then."

"Bull_shit_. Either I'm dead, or I'm not. Nothing I say is going to change that."

"Are you saying the mighty Ishvalla cannot make that choice? For being Omnipotent, you don't have much confidence in my prowess, Khalid."

"Just because I mouth off doesn't mean I'm stupid, _oh omniscient one._ You've already made the decision."

"I see you're starting to catch on."

"So what is it? Please tell me what I want to hear."

"You're not dead."

"Fuck."

"You didn't think you would get off that easily."

"No I suppose not. So what now? I sit in lingo for a couple months? That'll be barrels of fun."

"I learned my lesson from your last extended visit. I'm sending you back right away this time."

"Ugh. What do I need to do, then?"

"Breathe, Khalid."

(PAGE BREAK)

_Breathe._

Felix gasped for air. Pain laced through his body, the sting stretching to the far reaches of his limbs.

_Pain can be ignored._

He had more important things to worry about than pain. Pain was secondary. Felix stood at great effort, having to support himself using his hands and the railing on the wall.

_Rookie. He didn't check their kill._

He started running checks on his body. The first thing he noticed was that his left arm would move. Looking down at that side of his body, he noticed a large red stain on his left pectoral. Closer inspection revealed a bullet sized hole about an inch above his nipple in his clothes, underneath of which was red mass of torn muscles. He brought his left hand to the wound and brushed it. Pain resonated from the injury, indicating that the slug was still inside his body.

Quickly, Felix picked his knife up off the ground, wiped the blood off onto his pant leg, and started to dig around inside his chest, searching for the bullet. His teeth subconsciously barred from the feeling of performing field surgery upon himself, but that was the only sign of his discomfort. It wasn't a miracle that saved him from what would be a vital shot directly through the heart. Just a simple birth defect. When he was born he was found to have his heart located in the right side of his ribcage, just one of the many surprises and issues that his body held.

Feeling his knife tap against metal, Felix got his blade underneath the lead and pulled it from his body. As the steel exited his chest his teeth relaxed automatically. Looking over his body more thoroughly, he saw two more bullet wounds, one in his left arms bicep, and one that nearly punctured his stomach but instead nestled itself inside his torso in a way that would be easily removed. He relaxed his muscles as much before he set to work.

Fifteen minutes after he started, he was able to stand much easier, and with all the metal out of his body, was able to move his left arm with a lot more freedom than before. Unfortunately, the bullet that had pierced his bicep had also practically shattered the bone underneath it, so his arm wouldn't be of much use to him in combat. The pain, however, had lessened significantly, and thus required much less of a conscious effort to ignore it. He purposefully undid his tie and used it to pin his arm to his torso, so that it wouldn't get in the way by flopping around or damage itself even more. Once he felt satisfied with his effort he one handedly slipped his suit coat on over his tied arm and buttoned it up so as to prevent his arm from moving in cooperation with his tie.

He swept a bloody hand through his already red hair. He needed to get to a phone or a radio. He had no idea how long he had been out of it, but he was fairly sure that the terrorist were still in control of the building. If he could get in contact with Fuery then he'd be able to get the location of Mustang, Hawkeye, Olivier, and the men that she had brought along. If they were the same terrorists from before then they had undoubtedly brought an overabundance of men for the attack, so Felix would need to keep on his toes. And of course pray to god that no more random accidents like before didn't happen.

Seeing a fire extinguisher, Felix checked his surroundings and crept up on the red case. Fire extinguishers meant floor plans with escape routes, both of which would be helpful in this situation. Gently, he unscrewed the faceplate and withdrew the white piece of paper. Looking over it, Felix was able to locate the Administrator's office. The offices, however, were closer, and that was more than likely where all the Military personnel turned hostages would be located. It would be better to have direct command first and foremost. Besides, the Military was more than like already outside, waiting to launch an attack.

Felix eased open the door to the main ballroom and saw a good five men standing around with their hands on their rifles, guarding one of the offices. A variety of slaughtered guards were strewn throughout the floor. He eyed the closest one to him and noticed something next to him that held great interest to him. A sawed off Model 1887 lever action shotgun. He couldn't have asked for a gun that better suited his situation.

He gently picked it up, testing the weight of it in his hands. The lever on it was an oblong oval shape, enabling single handed use with the gun. Knowing that he couldn't trust the amount of cartridges in the gun, he took his knife and sliced open the side of his jacket, granting him access to his shoulder holster. He then slid the knife into its sheath located adjacently to his pistol, picked the sawed-off up and pointed it downrange.

"Unless you all want a whiff of double-aught buck, I'd suggest you all put down your weapons." Perhaps taking five men on at once wouldn't be considered smart to most people, but confidence went a long way. Not to mention that most people would shit their pants when barked at by a one armed man drenched in blood with a shotgun, and he was pretty sure they were no exception.

Judging by the clanking sound of their rifles slapping the floor, he had judged them correctly. "What else do you have on you? Knives? Pistols? You," he said, pointing to the man in front. "Come up here." The man complied. "Turn around, slowly." As the man turned around Felix saw a pistol in the small of his back and ordered him to stop. "Take your pistol out slowly and drop it on the ground." While in the middle of doing as Felix had commanded, the man jolted to life in an effort to subdue Felix.

Fast enough so that no one would be able to register what was going on, his released his hold on his shotgun, pulled his blade from its resting place, ripped it across the man's throat, sheathed it, and grabbed his shotgun from midair. The only thing his audience would see was a spray of blood come from their comrade's throat as he collapsed to the ground.

"Anyone else decides to try anything funny, and I'll kill every single one of you before you know who the one who pulled the gun was, do you understand?" Silence. "I said do you FUCKING UNDERSTAND ME?!"

"YESSIR!"

* * *

Olivier dropped the dead terrorist from her arms. Somehow the enemy thought it wise to leave only one man to guard a group of highly trained soldiers. Clearly it was not.

She turned to the other "hostages" and assessed their situation. Between the five of them in the room, she was the only one who was truly combat ready. Mustang could be useful in a tight spot, but certainly noting to rely on. There was one other combat soldier, but he had either fallen into a coma or died. The other two were a political officer and his wife, both useless as far an assault would go.

She had half a mind to leave them all in the room while she went exploring, but the prospect of leaving her commanding officer without anything resembling protection was ludicrous, so she would have to drag his ass around. The other two, however, she could and would leave. She turned to the political officer. "Are you able to fight?" The man looked shaken, but that was to be expected, especially from someone who wasn't used to the harsh realities of combat. His wife, on the other hand, looked disturbed on a deep level, especially after witnessing Olivier snap the terrorist's neck with her bare hands.

"I think so. It's been a while since I've gone through any type of formal training, but I do have some combat experience from the Third Craetian War." Oliver started a body search on the knocked out soldier to procure a half used package of cigarettes and a Military issue Luger Parabellum. She took two cigarettes out and handed the both the officer and his wife one to calm their nerves. "Do you have a light?" As he asked this Mustang extended his hand and snapped, creating a small manageable flame to appear on his extended thumb. It would have almost been comical if they weren't in the situation that they were in. As he lit the two cigarettes Olivier continued to address him.

"You need to stay here and protect your wife. Just make sure that you don't shoot one of us by mistake." She purposefully left the Luger on the ground so that the political officer would have a gun, and staked up on the door, Mustang immediately behind her. With her saber extended and the sidearm cocked and ready in her holster, Olivier swung the door open, ready to whet her sword's appetite.

Just beyond the door stood a man about an inch shorter than her who was covered in blood. She immediately swung at the figure, not bothering to give it the chance attack first, but her strike was met by a solid metal object, sending a resonating chime into the air.

* * *

Riza was focused on one thing and one thing only; finding and protecting Roy Mustang. She had been separated from him when the men in black had taken over the building because Roy had been dancing and talking with General Armstrong, and they had just shoved people into separate rooms as quickly as they could.

She had prayed to the gods that she didn't believe for some sort of blessing of luck, and the gods that she didn't believe had answered her desperate prayer. The terrorists had been stupid enough to leave only one guard in their room, which she had almost immediately dispatched. She had later learned that she had been extremely fortunate in her situation, as she had been quartered with three undercover security guards, two of which were ROSE. The fifth prisoner had been Colonel Heat.

Spotting a group of three guards, Riza took a knee and brought her Mauser to her eye. Making hand gestured she signaled two of the marksmen in her group to take aim. So far they had liberated four rooms of five, and had met up with most of the enlisted men that Olivier had brought. Included in those men was one of the snipers from her old unit, Sergeant Hathcock, and about seven other men who were combat ready. Riza held her hand up and started to count down from five. When she got to three she brought hand back down to the trigger and mentally counted town the last seconds.

All three shots were fired in unison, all three terrorists falling hitting the floor at the same time. Riza didn't have time to flirt with the notion of taking prisoners and saving lives. There was only one life she was interested in saving right now, and as the enemy had shown that they weren't beyond executing their prisoners at the Café a month earlier, assuming this was the same group, Riza couldn't find her Commanding Officer soon enough, thus the determination to cut through the enemy without mercy or a second thought. Roy would probably yell at her for taking lives when not needed, and she might even regret it herself, but that was for later. When Roy wasn't in danger.

There were two reassuring thoughts, however. Firstly, wherever Roy was, he was with Olivier. Olivier was one of the most competent soldiers she had ever seen, so there was hardly anyone she would rather have him around, if not her. The second was that the terrorists were incompetent. They hadn't even bothered to search anyone for weapons (despite them raiding a Military facility), they hadn't separated anyone from their groups, and they had only left one guard with each group.

"Fuck, Hawkeye, your losing your touch," Hathcock said, almost smugly. "You were nearly a whole inch off on that shot. Back in that god-forsaken desert you were the best sniper in our group. Hell, in our sector."

"I haven't had the same practice you've had lately, Charlie. The ranges in HQ aren't the same as battlefield experience." He nodded his head in acknowledgement and recycled the bolt on his rifle. Riza did the same, but when she slammed the bolt home, it didn't put another round in the chamber. _Great._ She started to look around for a new long weapon when she noticed the guns that the men they had just killed dropped.

Picking one up as they got to them, she started to examine it. It was the Drachmann rifle that Felix had been playing around with at the testing grounds. Judging by looks, it was relatively easy to operate. The magazine release was located directly behind the magazine catch, which housed a thirty round banana clip. On the side behind the shell ejector was a fire mode selector. She knocked the switch to the semi-auto mode and grabbed the remaining two magazines before continuing on down the halls with her group of soldiers.

* * *

"Felix?"

"Shit, 'Livier, you nearly took my other arm off with that thing. Try to be a little more attentive about who you're killing next time, m'kay?" They both lowered their blades and Olivier examined Felix in. He was damn near unrecognizable, his perfectly blond hair stained a deep red, the color dripping down into his bright blue eyes, nearly turning them the same color that she had first seen him with.

"What the hell happened o your arm?" Either it was completely gone, or he had it tied beneath his suit. More likely the latter.

"Shattered. Lead tends to do that to you." It was then that she realized that the majority of the blood on him was actually his. It was nearly unfathomable; she hadn't really seen him take on any serious battle wounds, though he had his share of minor injuries, and the black Wound Medals to go along with them. "Some Drachmann Pig Fucker rounded the corner on me when I just had my knife. Killed his friend too."

"Drachmann? Did you see him?"

"Nah, I heard him cursing when he unloaded with his rifle." Shit. That could change the game a lot. Not that it mattered too much right now, but she had a feeling it was going to come back and bite them in the ass. Checking him over more thoroughly, she saw the lever action shotgun poking out of the top of his suit and started to wonder exactly how combat competent he was without the use of his arm.

"Can you use that thing?" she asked, pointing to his gun. He answered by pulling it out and spinning it around on his hand, effectively replacing the ejected round and cocking the hammer. "Good. You take point." She needed to keep a safe guard on Mustang, and Felix was a hell of a lot better at killing than he was at protecting.

"Where to, Commander?" He asked, giving her control.

"We need to get Roy outside more than anything. Where are we?"

"In the center east wing. Directly down this hallway is the Grand Hall, which is where the closest exit is. It's also our only way out; all the other exits are barricaded." That was also, more than likely, where the bulk of the terrorists were. There would probably be about ten of them, judging from their abnormally large numbers they tended to haul around. Between the both of them, it wouldn't prove too much a problem.

She started to take inventory of their weapons as they strode down the hall. She had a .45 with five shots left, and her long sword. Felix had his knife, as always, a pistol, and a shotgun. "How many rounds do you have that thing?" Felix looked down at it, then up at her, then back down at it and shrugged. She scowled and forcefully took the gun from him before manually ejecting each round to count them. "You have four shots left with this. Make them count."

"I always do." Arriving at the Grand Hall's doors, they both pressed against a door, Mustang safely behind them, and prepared themselves for the breach.

"On three." Felix nodded his head. "One. Two." Felix raised his hand up, signaling for her to hold. He repositioned himself so that he could kick the door open, and Olivier remembered his broken arm. She nodded and turned back to the door.

"Three!"

* * *

Nikita whipped his head around at the sharp crack of splitting wood to see two figures at the now open doorway. One of the two pulled out what looked like a sawed-off rifle from behind him and pressed it to Sergei's' head and a loud boom sounded. Nikita watch in a mixture of horror and shock as his friends head fell completely off. No one moved for a solid second afterward, save for the man with the gun, who automatically spun the gun in a circle, readying the gun once again.

Then chaos ensued. Nikita finally snapped out of his paralyzed state and fired at the two intruders, his AK firmly at his hip. The two soldiers split, and Nikita had a hard time following either of them. They both sprang about the room, leaving a dead man where there had previously been a live one in its place. He couldn't believe his eyes. They were moving so fast, and were so practical in their movement that even if he could have gotten a good look at one of them there would inevitably been something in the way.

Counting the gun as useless, something that would do more harm than good, Nikita turned to his knife. If there was one thing he was good at, it was sticking a knife in someone's side. His knife had never failed him, and he had never failed his knife.

Nikita looked for the opportune moment to strike. He watched in absent agony as one by one his comrades were eliminated, brutally and efficiently. They hadn't signed up for this. Yes, they knew that there would be some danger involved, but this? This was a massacre.

It was hard to restrain himself as his close friends were shot, beaten, bludgeoned, and sliced to death's cold embrace. He had already accepted death as his fate, but he knew he could take one of them down with him.

The one in blue danced with her sword. No, he couldn't call that dancing for it was too efficient. None of the flair and frill that most with technique possessed. She would see something, and kill it. The one covered in blood however, now he danced. At this point he was down to his own knife, but it proved to be no less capable as a killing machine. He would counter blows, flip over back, slice of arms, cut throats, and all in a seemingly artistic style.

An opportunity was presented to him as the man with the knife found him with his back to him, if only for a split second, as he thrust his own knife into one of Nikita's comrades. Nikita forcefully shoved his knife forward, feeling it slide into the man's ribcage. He expected him to fall.

He didn't.

Instead he paused for a millisecond, gripped his fist around the blade protruding from his torso, and ripped it out. He took the knife and spun around, slashing Nikita's face with his own knife. Nikita fell to the ground, the pain nearly overwhelming him. He barely saw the man he had tried, and failed, to kill kneel above him. He expected his life to flash before his eyes, but it didn't. The only thing that flashed before his eyes was his own knife as it came swiftly down.

* * *

Two of the men that Riza commanded kicked the doors leading to the Grand Hall open, Riza and Hathcock Training their rifles to what lay beyond. As the doors swung open two figures spun to them, raising their weapons to chest height.

Recognizing them as Armstrong and… Kellogg? It was hard to tell through all the blood, she lowered her weapon, the rest of the men following suit. Kellogg lowered his knife and Riza realized just how spent he looked.

"Fuck, Hawkeye, I thought I was going to have to fight more of these assholes." She looked around them and took in the gruesome sight. The two of stood, covered in blood, over fifteen or so dead bodies, all hacked and sliced to death. By one of the entrance lie decapitated corpses, its head having rolled a couple feet away from it. This was undoubtedly the source of all the gunfire that they heard a minute ago.

Both looked worn, but Kellogg looked exhausted. She had a strong suspicion that only half of the blood he was covered in was his enemies and the fact the she couldn't see his arm served to confirm those suspicions.

Neither looked steady enough to command, so Riza went ahead with the initiative.

"Where's the General." Kellogg half heartedly raised his hand in the direction of an entrance and Armstrong explained their situation. When she went to check behind the doors in question she was relieved to find her General safe, and in one piece.

She grabbed his hand and led him into the Grand Hall.

Together they all exited the building, into the protective care of the Military, who had amassed around the building. As soon as they ascended the stairs Kellogg collapsed onto the ground, and Riza half wondered if he was flat out dead, or just collapsed from exhaustion. Then again, this was Kellogg. Somehow Riza doubted that anything could kill him.

The rest of the day passed like a blur. She stayed with Roy throughout the entire time, but she didn't pay attention to a word he was saying. She knew in the back of her mind that this would change things. But she didn't care much at the time. They were surrounded by allies, and Roy was safe. In the end that was all that mattered.

**END OF ACT ONE**

**Please Review. Especially this chapter, and be honest. I'm REALLY not sure if I like it, so please, honesty.**


	10. The Hypocrisy of Missus Hawkeye

**Erwin Rommel says: In the absence of orders, find something and kill it. :D  
So, writing for Olivier can be very… well, it's hard to tell if your nailing her character, ya know? So, I tried to do her justice, and I don't think that I did a half bad job on it, but if you think "Wow, OOC!" please tell me.**

_Colonel Bastard,_

_I don't have much time, so I'll make this quick. The other day I was snooping around the S.A. record office when I found a file on a man named Al Manhattan. The records didn't say much about him, other than the fact that he doesn't know much about his past at all. Apparently, he says he woke up in the town of Manhattan about five months ago, and didn't remember anything about his past. All he had on him was a set of gloves that said "Al". _

_Do you see where this is going? I haven't seen my brother since the Promise day, Colonel. _

_The boy, whose age in 'Unknown', hasn't received the notice that he's been officially accepted into the State Alchemist program, but the report said that "Though clearly young, he shows such talent and understanding of alchemy that it would be a truly foolish mistake to pass up the opportunity." _

_I've been trying to find him, but if you could keep an eye out for him, I think it would fall in your best interest. And I would appreciate it, if that matters at all. _

_And it might be nothing. But this is the closest thing that I have to a lead, so please: keep me posted._

_-Ed_

_P.S.: Nice janitor's closet. I wouldn't have expected you to go blue collar, but I can't say it doesn't suit you._

(PAGE BREAK)

"You were shot five times, shattered your arm, punctured a lung. Twice. Stabbed with a knife which you ripped out yourself, causing the laceration to be twice as bad as it would have been, and you're complaining about nurses." It was indeed a tad ridiculous. "Kellogg, it's a miracle you're alive in the first place." He shrugged in response, brushing off Roy.

"I'm hard to kill. Anyway, I'm all better now, but the friggin' hospital staff won't let me out of this hell hole." Armstrong got an odd look on her face at his comment, and Riza felt like she was missing something.

She didn't know what Kellogg's issue was. She would have thought that he would have been happy to take a few days rest after all that he had been through. Not to mention the coma. Regardless, there was nothing they could do about it; He had just woken up today after two months of unconsciousness, and the hospital required at least three day's rest before they were permitted leave. In fact, with all that happened to him, not to mention the multiple surgeries that he had gone through without knowing, he was lucky to get only three days for mental reconstruction.

"Please, don't leave me alone with the hospital staff. Every time I get stuck inside this place they try to force feed me their mental stability programs, and I freakin' sick of them. Not to mention the food…" Breda seemed to awake at his mention of 'food', and immediately spoke up.

"Food? I love hospital food. I'll gladly take it." Before Roy had a chance to shut him up, Kellogg handed him his plate.

"So, now for the ten million sens question." Roy said.

"Why are you guys here. I could I wanted to make sure that you're alright. I also want to go over what happened at the Ball two months ago, among other things." Kellogg looked skeptical. His lack of speech indicated to Roy that his explanation wasn't quite good enough, so he explained further. "And, we have a man from the incident that is still in recovery. We were checking up on him when we learned that you came to, so I thought we'd drop by so I could deal with you myself." Felix nodded his head in understanding.

"And Olivier?"

"I'm here to make my regular checkups. Mustang assigned me to be your bodyguard, which was probably a good idea." Riza understood exactly what she meant. One only gets a single chance to make a first impression, and Kellogg did so by insulting people and trying to get under their skin as much as possible. The idea that someone might want to kill him didn't seem ludicrous by any definition of the word.

"So, Kellogg, and this is the biggest reason that it's important for me to come to you, we have a problem. The terrorist cell that we have been tracking, or rather, attempting to track, was the one who was responsible for the attack on HQ. We have about five survivors from the attack, and they all claim to belong to the Royal Drachmann Military." Alarm bells seemed to ring in Kellogg's head, and he was obviously arriving to the same conclusion that they had.

"That's bullshit. Those guys were incompetent dipshits. They even didn't search their hostages for weapons, and this is the State for God's sake. They're no more military than my mother fucking cat." Roy nodded his head.

"That's what we were thinking. Not to mention the fact that if the RDM were to stage attacks like this, they would at least have the sense to execute the officers, rather than waiting around to get killed.

So that's one of our major problems. If these guys aren't RDM, then who are they? They aren't religious terrorists, nor are they political. If they were then they would have stated their cause. They aren't here to get revenge. None of them have said that they had a real problem with the State. They don't seem to have a cause. The only thing that makes sense is that they're a criminal enterprise, but even that seems unlikely. Underground organizations stay away from the State Military, save for the MPs."

"So the only thing you have is oral statements that they're DRM," Kellogg said.

"Which is more than likely just a ruse to escape punishment. We've sent out written confirmation to the Drachmann Government, but until that returns with a stamp proving its illegitimacy they are protected under international treaty."

"So that sucks. But so what? You can keep it down for the time being, until you get your forms back, and until then nothing bad is gunna happen. Their little organization is so crippled that it can't count its toes. We cut them all off." Roy sighed.

"Well, that's where the shit really hits the fan." Roy leaned back in his seat and rested his head on his hands before continuing. "Our biggest problem right now is not the terrorists. At least directly. I have doubts as to if they even exist any longer.

"Our biggest problem is Heat." Felix looked at him questioningly. "Heat seems to believe that the terrorists are in fact RDM, and that Drachma is staging preemptive strikes at High Command to soften us for the initial blow, so to speak. For all that we thought he wasn't doing anything, it seems he was. Heat suddenly has mounds and mounds of investigative reports on how they got in country, and why they chose the places to attack that they did."

"So just shut him up. Olivier's in charge of the department that his belongs to, so ship him out to eastern and have him rot in the desert."

"It's not that simple anymore. After the Ball, for God knows why, Heat was promoted to Brigadier General, and I don't have the same authorization over the General Staff that I do over everyone else. Furthermore, he managed to get himself transferred out of The Department of Terrorism, and into Foreign Affairs." Roy paused to let Kellogg process the situation.

"So now Heat's skirt has been lifted to reveal his raging hard-on to go to war," Felix said. Roy seemed a bit taken aback by his euphemism, and Olivier just rolled her eyes.

"Uh, something like that. The thing is, Kellogg, we can't go to war. We don't have the resources, or the man power. Our hierarchy is in shambles from the Promise Day, and now half of our General Staff is made up of inexperienced military brats, who just managed to be in bed with the right people at the right time."

"I stiff fail to see what this has to do with me."

"You're the one who's dealt with him the most. You know him better than anyone here." Riza could tell that Kellogg knew exactly where this was going.

"My hand is already suffering from the cramps it knows it's going to have from all the reports I'm going to fill out. You know, for all the complaining you do about it, you make your underlings do most of it." Roy stood up and put his overcoat on. Riza immediately stood beside him and absent mindedly checked to see if his path out the door was clear of any foreign objects.

"One of the many perks of being a General, Master Gunnery Sergeant. Perhaps you should have become an officer." Roy took the opportunity to stand up, indicating that he was ready to leave. Riza stood up beside him and help him with his coat.

"Somehow, Major General, the prospect of sitting around in an office all day doesn't suit me. I'll take the bullet wounds and paperwork any day," he responded while leaning back in his bed to get some rest.

She and Roy walked down the hall in their usual silence. Despite them having a relationship, he knew to keep his hands off in public. Well, the term 'keeping his hands off' was applied loosely here; he still had his arm wound around her waist to guide him. Something she knew he took far too much pleasure in. It was his way of claiming her as his and still maintaining the level of professionalism that was required in the Military.

In the car, on the way back, Roy took her off guard by asking a sudden a question.

"Lieutenant? Can I trust Kellogg?" She kept her eyes on the road ahead of her, despite the temptation to try and read his face.

"Sir?"

"You've spent a lot of tie with him, right? I need to know. I haven't spent as much time with my men as I would like to, and I hardly know him. I only have Armstrong's assurance, and I'd just like another's opinion." As she thought about it the more she realized that she wasn't qualified to make such a generalization.

"To tell you the truth, sir, I'm really not sure. He's teaching me to fight, but other than that I don't have any contact with him." He thought for a moment, and she turned into HQ and parked her car.

"I'd like you to get to know him. I'm trying to prevent a war, and the last thing I need is a trigger happy maniac."

"Yes sir." Riza couldn't help but feel like she was being used to tame a wolf.

* * *

"You know, Felix, this is the first time we've been alone since you've woken up." Felix turned to the woman who was speaking. She had that look in her eye; that teasing look that he was fairly sure only he had seen.

"So it has been. The nurses seem to have a knack to interrupt." Olivier stood up and walked over to his bed.

"I've had to sit here for two long months, having to stare at you, helpless, lying on the bed." He smirked at her. Spoke slowly, rolling around her words in her mouth before she permitted them to escape. She was close enough that her scent drifted into his nose easily. He only wished that he enjoyed it as much as he should have.

"Funny. The last time I saw you, you were covered in blood from head to toe, and anything but helpless." She crawled on top of him, straddling his waist ad pulled herself back a bit, allowing herself to take him into her sight completely.

"Oh, I bet you just loved that. Seeing my hair drenched in red. Seeing it slowly cascade down my neck and spill into my jacket. I bet you just wanted to reach up and _lick_. It off me." The thought had crossed his mind. More than once.

"Olivier, stop. You know why we can't do this." Her smirk turned wider, as if she had just found exactly what she wanted. Which she probably had.

"Oh, come on, Felix. Let me have my fun." He would have, until she had brought up the fact that she still remembered his weakness. "I even came prepared. Remember this?" She pulled out a large knife. Oh yes, he remembered that knife. That was the knife that she had once managed to seduce him with. The memory of it sliding across her bare skin was still fresh in his mind, haunting him, teasing him. He both loved and hated that knife.

And right now he hated it. Right now it was being used against him and, given a little more teasing, it might've been successful.

She dragged the blade across her arm, causing the skin to stretch and nearly break. His hands wanted nothing more than grasp the blade and tear open her flesh himself. His eyes wouldn't leave the white markings that the sharp edge left, and his heavy breathing traitorously betrayed his emotions. But he would not move his hand. Even if it took all of his will power, he would not. Move. His. Hand.

In spite of himself he saw his arm reach forward and his fingers grasp the handle. He brought the knife to eye level to examine it more closely. Grasping her arm with his empty left hand, he searched for the white etchings that she had made when teasing him.

Locating the marks, he brought the knife to the skin and pressed down lightly, stretching the skin downwardly. Then, abruptly, he forced it into her body. A maroon liquid filed the area, and a cry of pain, which she tried to disguise as pleasure, escaped from Olivier's lungs.

Felix immediately pulled the knife away from her body, and looked at her sternly. "I told you no, Olivier. What can't you understand about that?"

"What I can't understand is how you say no, but then go on with it all the same." Her smirk was still present, but it was forced at this point. He had cut her deeply and, though she was able to stand it, the pain had hurt her and not aroused her. She wasn't a freak, like he was.

"Get off of me." Her smirk turned malicious as she glared at him.

"Why do you deny yourself what you want, Felix? I'm offering it to you, and all you do is turn it down." _Because the last time I took what I wanted, I woke up to you on the verge of death. _He could remember her lying there in all that blood, and how… hot she was. Before he realized she was unconscious, not asleep.

"Because you deserve better than me, Olivier." He stared into her eyes, and she stared back. "Someone who wants your body. Not your blood."

She grudgingly climbed off him to stand beside him and glare at him. He could tell that she wanted nothing more than to leave at this point. He didn't blame her. She wasn't the only one who wanted away from the other; her arm was still exposed and the red fluid dripped down its length so appealingly…

Riza could tell she was interrupting something. She had no idea what, but she could tell that she was interrupting _something_. The way the two just stood there looking at each other almost creped her out, not to mention the blood on Olivier's arm. Armstrong's back was turned, hiding the expression on her face from Riza, but Kellogg was in full view of her. The expression on his face was near unreadable. A mix of lust, anger, sadness, and desperation, all shining through more clearly than she had ever seen before.

The cat in her arms meowed, betraying her presence to the two. Kellogg's eyes shifted their focus onto her, and Armstrong twisted herself to look in Riza's direction. To her surprise she could see a hint of appreciation on the woman's face before it went back to its usual contorted scowl. The long haired blond stormed out of the room, grumbling about how she had to go and clean herself up.

"Is she alright?" She briefly wondered if she should go get a nurse.

"She can take care of herself. That is, so long as she doesn't get mobbed by the staff on her way to wherever she's going." He reached his arms to her in an inviting manner. "Come to papa Felix!"

She just stood there and looked at him oddly for a second before she realized that he was talking to the ball of fur that she was absentmindedly petting. The cat finished licking its paw and leapt out of her hold and into his.

She just stood there awkwardly for a moment, not knowing what to say. She was no conversationalist; she was used to standing in the background, and would respond when spoken to, but that was usually it. Luckily for her, he started talking before she was forced into any speaking.

"How long have you been there? I mean, how much of that did you see?" Not enough to realize that there _was_ something to see. She couldn't but wonder exactly what went down between him and Armstrong, but the way he posed his question suggested that it was much more than she would have ever thought.

"A couple minutes. Long enough." She had once heard someone say that 'People are stupid', The idea being that if someone thought that if you knew more than you really did, then they would divulge more than they would intend. After all, it wasn't like he was going to quiz her on how much she saw.

"It's not like she's a slut." It had worked like a charm. "You may think that, after how hard she was coming onto me, but she's not. She just knows what I want." That was more information than she had counted on. She was indeed right that much more had gone on between them than she would have thought. Continuing her charade, she pooped on eyebrow and looked at him questioningly.

"And she was trying to get what she wants?" He let out a short harsh laugh at that.

"She thinks she knows what she wants."

Olivier ran her wet hands through her hair. She had taken the effort to bandage up her throbbing arm after running it under the cold water of the ladies room facet, but that hadn't really done anything to soothe her mental state. Or to stop the bleeding. Taking a bored look at the bandage, which she had only applied minutes earlier, she was going to need new wrapping soon.

It wasn't too often that she got a chance to look at herself, as she was doing now. She usually kept herself too busy. She glared at the woman in the mirror, and was pleased by what she saw; despite the stress, she still had the face that was able to make most men shit their pants. The years of experience had taught her how to maintain her icy demeanor, even when she could find the actual attitude in herself. She was worried that the months in the soft life of central had taken that away, but clearly they had not.

Hey eyes drifted a bit lower, and took in the details of her body, as much as the black tank top would allow. Her skin was covered in markings, reminding her vaguely of some her soldier's tattoos that they wore like medals. But her being didn't have any tattoos on it, and in their place were a countless number of scars. When she peeled the thin piece of clothing off, the scars continued, some bold, others faded, like a timeline of her memories and mistakes, carved into her person. Her arm would be the newest addition to her collection, but not the first intentional.

A large number of them, seven when one cared to be exact, were easily recognizable as the same age. They were old, perhaps four, five, maybe six years old, but Felix had cut deep; they were there to stay for a good long time. And that was how she preferred it. Those scars were the only tangible evidence she had of that night, and damn near the only memories. It had taken a lot of will power to do anything with the pain of the cuts soaking up her attention, and while she was awake it had taken all the effort not to collapse form the loss of blood.

There had been no pleasure for her that night. She wasn't… she never got off from the pain. Yet, she was willing to do it all over again. Even knowing that he could very possibly lose control, ending with her lying in a gurney next to him or worse. Perhaps she did deserve better. But she didn't want better.

"And you know what she wants better than she does?" He smiled at her, a toothy draconic smile, the one that tended to send shivers down her spine.

"Olivier is the closest thing that I've had to 'love'. But I can't love. At least, not her." She stared at him as if to say, 'why not?' "Any type of 'love' I would share with her would be no better than homosexuality." That statement caught her off guard. "And _that_ is a sin."

"Why? Love is love, no matter who it's shared by. Just because you don't agree with their beliefs, doesn't mean they are wrong." He kept his smile up, looking down at her belittlingly.

"You like to stand on your high horse and claim that you are 'accepting', that you won't hold others opinions against them. You're just another hypocrite. Homosexuality is a mental deficiency; the wires didn't connect quite right, and instead produced something that was wrong. They are a scourge to society, just as murderers and rapists." She was starting to get angry, but, remembering who she was taking to, forced her voice to stay even.

"How can you say that? You cannot blame people for what they cannot control; it's not fair to their situation."

"As I said, Ms. Hawkeye, you are a hypocrite. You say 'the poor people, they cannot control their actions, so we should put up with them' yet you cannot stand other's with basically the same problem."

"Give me one example."

"Me." Riza was at a loss of words. "You think me a creep, who enjoys the slaughter. You know why? Because I'm masochistic. Somehow, when the wires in my brain were getting connected, someone placed something in the wrong way, so now I associate the infliction of _pain_ with sexual stimulation and pleasure. In the end, it's not my fault, but that doesn't change anything. You hate me for it, and you should; I'm a freak. Just don't pretend to be 'accepting' to people who don't have control of their fate, because the fact is that you're not."

She just sat there in silence for a while, because she didn't know what to say. Then, something that he said earlier came back into her mind.

"You said 'she knows what you want.' Was that why her arm was bleeding?" He nodded his head, his face unreadable.

The nurse's eyes widened when Olivier showed her the laceration on her forearm. The bandages that she had applied herself were, at this point, useless, as the blood was dripping through the thick gauze, falling freely to the ground when gravity took charge of it. Somehow that seemed like a pretty good sign to her that perhaps the wound was worse than she initially thought, so she had decided to seek medical attention. Judging by the woman's reaction, she had been right.

"This happened recently, Miss. How did you manage to cut yourself so badly?"

"I tripped and fell on my knife," she lied. "It happens to the best of us, I'm afraid. You should be relieved that I landed on my arm." In a situation like this, it was better to just lie. Telling the truth would get Felix in trouble, and it hadn't been his fault. She was asking for it, quite literally.

"Umm, how did you manage to fall with your arm hitting the ground like that?" she asked, skeptically. Damn bitch was perspective. How the hell did she think she was anyway? If that was her explanation, then that should be what she believes. She didn't need to nose around in her private affairs.

"Just fix the damn thing already. Or do I half to seek out a more competent nurse?" The woman shrunk in Olivier's piecing stare, and meekly started to lead her to a place that she could better apply the bandages.

Pride let out a long, whiny meow in complaint that the two adults were paying more attention to each other than they were him, causing the two adults to break out of their silence.

"How did they treat you, kitty? Were they good to you when Poppy was gone?" The cat looked up to him and playfully swatted at his face, causing to Riza to smile. The scene reminded her somewhat of her own reuniting with Black Hayate, and when she saw the man act like that, it made it easy to forget the things that he had declared about himself. He seemed more… human.

"Your cat surprised me. I would have thought he would have spent most his time sitting in a ball in the corner." Felix let out a short laugh.

"Pride gets around. You think I would let a useless sack of bones live in my apartment?"

"I hadn't even realized we had mice in our office, until I found them at the front of the Generals door. He certainly knows whose butt to kiss." Felix started to scratch his cat underneath his chin, the animal soaking the attention in like a sponge. "But he seems happiest when he's around his master." Felix looked at when a slight grin on his face.

"You're a dog person aren't you?" She nodded her head. "That's what I thought. Your dog has a master. Cats don't have masters; they have servants. Maybe friends. The closest thing this cat does to work is catch a mouse or two a month. Other than that it sleeps, eats, and demands attention." That sounded about right, from the way he had behaved around the office. Perhaps that was why she wasn't a cat person.

"Why did you name it Pride?" When she first heard the name she had had to keep her hand from reaching up to her cheek. It seemed an odd name for an animal, especially this one. One would think 'Pity' would be a better way to describe it.

"Olivier never explained it? Hmm. Actually, that doesn't surprise me too much…

"Pride's name is Pride because Pride is my Pride."

**I hope this chapter didn't totally lose your interest in this fic, because I really liked how this turned out. Especially after the last chapter. **

**Also: In the "Devil's Nest" chapters in the Manga, Martel was the one with the Hammer, right? It would make sense, really. Please, if you know, could you tell me?**


	11. Staff Sergeant Khalid AbdulMalik

**I know I should have gotten this out sooner. But I had finals. Thank the heavens that German was the only big deal, if I had to take the band final I would have died from over stress. And while I a D on my German final (an A on everything else) I still passed onto with a C! that's better than thought, lol. Sad… And to celebrate, Axis and Allies! Germany FTW!**

**I raped Russia. I bent it over, and had my way with it. My friend, who was playing Japan, fucking dominated the seas, and made it impossible for America and Great Britain to come to Russia's aid, so me and my 63 divisions of Tanks just plain face punched Moscow's last stand of 24 tank divisions, while I rolled into Western United States with one tank, because all of their forces were trying to keep Japan's naval invasion at bay. Now the World belongs to Me (Germany) and my friend. I love Axis and Allies. When you win it makes to want to punch a baby seal and perform a twenty minute gut busting guitar solo.**

General Martel slicked back his meticulous oiled hair with his fine tooth comb. He smoothed his flawless grey uniform down, and checked his boots to reassure himself of their perfect polish. Finally checking his brass buttons, he felt satisfied that his form was perfect, and his appearance flawless.

Three knocks were heard from his oak door, in an annoyingly sloppy manner.

"Enter." His door swung open silently, and the man walked in. The bootfalls were horribly off cantor, irritating Martel to no end. Martel about faced, turning so the man at the door came into his view and took in the appearance of the officer in front of him. His messy grey and orange hair and untrimmed beard framed his sloppy salute.

"General Martel." Martel gave his stiff, perfect salute in reply, and the man dropped his hand from his forehead. "You requested to see me…?" Martel kept his solid gaze up for two seconds before giving a still, short nod.

"Indeed." Martel sat back down in his chair, and waved his hand, indicating that his guest had permission to take a seat. "Brigadier General Heat, so far I am unimpressed." Heat noticeably shifted around nervously at Martel's declaration.

That was not limited to just the man sitting in front of him, however. Martel could not help but be disgusted by the entirety of the General Staff that had replaced The Fuehrer President's Staff. The majority of the new leadership had been composed of hastily promoted Colonels and Generals that had been pulled from the detached bases throughout the country, and the discipline of Bradley's Amestris was now something of the past.

Brigadier General Heat, he hoped, would not prove to be part of the weak. His appearance, however, was none too reassuring. "You promised me that you could make this into a war, Brigadier General, but after two months my troops are still on standby. How much longer will this take you?" Perhaps he had placed his confidence in the wrong hands.

"I've told you before, General, these things take time and delicacy. I assure you that you will have your war, but you need to have patience." Martel's bright blue eyes bored into Heat.

"Do not presume to tell me what _I_ need to do. You'll find that shiny Silver Star ripped off your shoulder faster than you can say 'forgive me for my insubordination'. Am I understood?"

"Yes sir." Martel shifted his concentration away from the man in front of him, wordlessly dismissing him.

"And one more thing. The next time I see you, I expect you to be clean shaven and your hair to be either cut or combed. That is an order, Soldier."

(PAGE BREAK)

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Felix rubbed the back of Pride's ears as he purred affectionately as Riza asked the question.

"This cat is horribly disfigured," he stated. "Yet the only way you would know is if you saw it with your own eyes." She still looked a bit confused, so he continued. "He still manages to do everything that a cat should do despite his issues. He has absolutely no reason to be ashamed of himself, because rather than giving up and living his life as a cripple, he strived to render him disability as meaningless. H has a sense of pride in his life, and I have a sense of pride in him." It had an odd logic to it, but she could see how it worked. Because, based on what he had said earlier, he considered himself a cripple despite having an able body. His cat had external problems, and he had internal ones.

The topic of the conversation leapt form Felix's lap onto Riza's own, and her hand automatically reached up to stroke the cat's fur. Once past the deformities, the animal was quite beautiful. It's red and black fur had softened in the years of it' existence, blending together to create a lava like design. Its hind right leg was encased in black but other than that the two colors met in shadings and swirls throughout its body.

She had never really seen a cat with the same colors that it had.

"Where did you get him from?" she asked. Felix's eyes suddenly turned dark and Riza felt like she had touched on a very touchy subject.

"You're wondering about the color?" She nodded her head in response. "This breed of cat is very popular in the West. Pride is more or less a souvenir from my tour of duty during the Third Creatian War."

* * *

Staff Sergeant Khalid AbdulMalik knocked on the door in front of him, and waited for it to open. When it did, Khalid's Commanding General came into view.

"Sergeant." The simplicity of the greeting was what Khalid loved about it. No pointless flair. Khalid didn't even bother with a salute; it would just be waved of anyway.

"Lt. General. You asked to see me?" Finishing with a sheet of paper on his desk, the General looked up and met eye to eye with Khalid. His dark red eyes seemed almost benevolent. Khalid wasn't fooled. He may seem kind and benign at this point in time, but to think this man as a pushover would be the last mistake of your life. One didn't rise to the second highest rank in the Presidential Guard by having a merciful personality.

"Sergeant, I want to ask you a question. You don't have to worry about this going on the record or anything. Just answer honestly."

"…sir?" The three star god in front on him leaned back in his chair and kept up his gaze at Khalid.

"Why did you enlist in the army, soldier?" So he could get some.

"To serve for my country and protect those that I love." The General saw right through him.

"That's why you enlisted in ASM. But you didn't enlist in ASM; you enlisted in the Royal Presidential Guard. So I'll ask you again. Why, Sergeant AbdulMalik, did you enlist in the_ Guard_?" Khalid grinned and stared right back at him, his own red eyes flaring with amusement.

"I joined so I could eat up the lead that my enemy spits at me, and shove it back up their asses. Sir."

"Damn right you did." The General lifted his hand up and motioned with his fingers. A tall skeleton of a man with black hair that was tortured into slavery walked up with stiff precise movement. His Dress Grays were ironed to perfection and the Silver Star on his collar, cufflinks, and shoulders were polished. "I'm having you transferred to the Western Theater to participate in the border skirmishes. You'll be under the command of Brigadier General Erwin Martel, and placed into an appropriate company as per his discretion. Brigadier General Martel _will _ have you fight, but other than that everything depends on you, Sergeant. What say you?"

Khalid was grinning a grin bigger than the lapel on his uniform. What member of The Guard wouldn't be giddy as a school girl as the prospect that had been presented to him? He replied with the simple grunt of the Presidential Guard.

"Oohrah."

The Ishballan General wore an amused grin when Khalid voiced his agreement.

"You'll report to Western in four days. You are dismissed." Both men turned around are started to walk out of the room, but the Lt. General quickly called Khalid back for a final word. "Listen, Khalid, I have a small request to make."

"Anything, sir."

"Your mother… doesn't need to know about this. I'll already be sleeping on the couch for a week when she finds out, but if you could just refrain from telling her?" Khalid smirked at the request.

"Of course." Khalid gave a firm salute, which Lt. General AbdulMalik returned in kind, and marched out of the office. As he was walking down the hallway, he found the Brigadier General standing there, waiting for him. Khalid halted at attention and they exchanged stiff, practiced salutes. He had heard of Martel before, and knew that he wouldn't stand for the same lax attitude the Khalid displayed when around his father.

"I have heard good things about you, Sergeant." As had Khalid he, but the rumors about Martel were a lot more entertaining to focus on. "But I don't base my judgment on hearsay. As of right now I have as much confidence in you as the privates that I have yet to examine. You will gain confidence in my eyes as I see your competence, and not until then. Am I understood?" This guy was going to be a certified bitch to work under, but that was alright. Uniform precision and impeccable discipline was the number one cause of life on the battlefield, as far as Khalid was concerned, and this bastard was chalked full of it.

"Sir, yes sir!" The last time he had given a response as robotic as that had been in boot and basic, and the words nearly felt foreign in his mouth.

"That's what I like to hear, Sergeant. You will report to Foxtrot at 0700 hours on Monday." The look on his face told him that he was to be ready to deploy at 0650.

* * *

Khalid's knees gave subtle pops as he stretched after getting off the train. The frigid night air of the Western Late-fall glanced off his exposed skin, forcing him to suppress a shiver. He was used to the hot days and warm nights year round, and here the seasons slapped him across his face and hands. He made a mental note to himself that he needed to pick up a pair of gloves for his stay here.

He strode into the looming building with the ASM Lion etched on the side, carrying his heavy bag of clothing in one arm. The building was a much easier to navigate that that of Central's, and managed to find himself in the ARPG housing office with relative ease. Unfortunately for him, the quartering officer was a racist bitch and claimed that there were no open apartments and that he would have to find something else until a room cleared out.

He didn't know anyone in Western, nor did he know who his First Sergeant, Sergeant Major, or even Commanding Officer was.

Eventually he found himself in a bar on the edge of town where he had seen a group of ARPG soldiers enter. Normally he didn't frequent bars, but he had gotten desperate by that time; if he didn't meet someone he could bunk with, he'd end up sleeping on the streets. Hopefully the "Guard Brotherhood" would pull through.

"You're new here." The statement came from a golden haired woman with an ample chest and a silver flower oh her shoulder.

"Yes sir, I am." The woman scowled. She was drunk, but she clearly held her liquor well.

"We're not on duty, Sergeant. And if you call me 'Sir' one more time in an off-duty setting you'd better be blind or underneath me where it's clear that you know I'm a woman." Khalid was extremely amused by her demeanor. Judging by first impressions, she probably had the biggest, brassiest balls in the room. He sat down next to her and ordered a drink. He knew he had to be careful; his alcoholic tolerance was terrible, but if he played his cards right then he'd be able to land a bed no problem.

After the third drink he couldn't tell his threes from his aces.

After the fourth, he could tell a chair from a uniformed soldier.

He would never remember exactly what happened that night. What he would remember was that punches had been thrown, and in the morning he woke up with a cat clawing at the inside o f his skull, another reason that he avoided alcohol, and the woman with the golden hair and large breasts, who, incidentally, had an ugly purple bruise on her left cheek.

He managed to drag himself off the mattress, and smooth his uniform of wrinkles. As he was shining his boots, the woman, of whom he still didn't know her name, sauntered up beside him, clearly still recovering from the poison in her system. He stared at her for a second, and purposefully took notice of the silver flower. To say that this was a onetime thing would have been a lie. This had been a notime thing. Nothing happened in their drunken frenzy, because nothing could have happened. Even if she had made advances on him, and judging by his sleeping quarters she had, it just wouldn't have happened.

Regardless, she was an officer and a Lt. Colonel no less. She was now strictly 'Sir' or 'Colonel'. In all reality, though, he didn't even know her name, so nothing would have changed much. Hopefully, though, she would at least know who Foxtrot's CO was.

"Sir, I was just transferred in from Central. Martel assigned me to Foxtrot. Do you know where there command post is?"

"Just follow me, Sergeant. I'm headed there myself."

* * *

The shock in finding that the golden haired woman, now identified as Lt. Colonel Olivier Armstrong, was his CO didn't originate from the fact that he had slept with her. As he had acknowledged earlier, nothing had happened. The shock was from the fact that the bruise on her face originated from his hand. As it turned out, that had actually been the reason why she had taken him home with her; apparently she when she had lashed out at him for some reason or another, he had drunkenly reversed the punch, and countered. The fact that it had been a legitimate reason to take him home with her told him that he was going to get exactly what he had come here for.

Women had always made the toughest sons of bitches when they got into command positions.

As it turned out, Martel's advice to be ready to deploy at a moment's notice was said with good reason. On the first day he was in the unit they had a directive.

"Sergeant, I don't really have the time to adjust the ranks and compensate for an E6, so you'll just be directly under me," Colonel Armstrong said. Somehow he got the idea that it was just an excuse for her to get a closer observation on him, and how he operated in combat. So be it. If that was the case, then he'd just do his best to impress the shit out of her. We're going to the assistance of 369th infantry division, who's holding a position in Creata. The call for reinforcements was made last night, so we're answering."

"You got the call last night, and you're just now answering?" He climbed into the jeep after she did, and they sat down across from each other. When he got a better look at her face, he could see a look of extreme irritation on it.

"DO you know who the 369th is, Sergeant?" He shook his head. "The 369th is one of the all black regiments. The telegraph officer didn't see the importance of relaying the reinforcements request until this morning."

"And why does the fact that they're an all black regiment matter? The ARPG has an official policy-"

"-On racism, yes I know. The 'official' reason why the black boys aren't integrated throughout the regular regiments is because it 'utilizes an already established sense of brotherhood and creates a greater fighting machine.' Don't be so naïve, Sergeant. Do you know why you couldn't get an apartment last night?" The memory of the Quartering Office was vaguely in his mind.

"Because every room was full. There was no space for me." She rolled her eyes at his response and he couldn't help but start to feel rather childish.

"If that was the case we wouldn't be so understaffed in this damn rat hole. I know of entire hallways void of any living save the roaches crawling in the walls. The reason you couldn't get a room, Sergeant AbdulMalik, was because of the bloody red eyes. This is a different place than Central, Sergeant. In Central everyone at least tries to keep their racism to themselves. Here it runs rampant, like a disease."

The rest of the ride was made in silence, which was just as well, as he had a hard time hearing her over the white noise of the jeep. Finally the jeep pulled over, and the driver signaled them to disembark. As their squad led the platoon forward, they easily spotted a column of smoke rising from the forest. As they approached the smoke, they could a noise coming from the camp, which they could identify as music as they got closer.

Jazz music, to be more specific. Jazz music that Khalid realized that he realized as they moved closer. Only one man could sing like that that he knew. An old friend of his from basic.

"Sergeant Henry Lincoln Johnson. You mother fucking nigger," he said, emerging from the forest into the view of the two soldiers. The man he was addressing looked up from his position and grinned.

"I never thought I'd you here, you damn camel fucker." They two soldiers were laying about fifty feet away from about thirty dead bodies, and they looked worse than the bodies. Johnson was the worse of the two. His uniform was near black with stale blood and what wasn't soaked was completely gone, revealing burnt dead skin. Beside him lay his broken Mauser, the buttstock splintered and the machines still jammed. On the other side of him, protruding from the ground was a machete, clearly having earned a lot of use.

"Holy shit, Henry, what the hell happened to you?"

"Mother fucking Grapes thought they could take Needham here, so I had to take upon my polite self to inform them that they couldn't take him."

"You look like you were hit by a grenade."

"Three, actually."

Colonel Armstrong left three squads to hold down the position and took the rest to escort Sergeant Johnson and Private Roberts to the base hospital. Half of the things that Johnson said about the night before would have been passed off as complete bullshit if Khalid hadn't seen the evidence himself.

**I'm not happy with this. Your free to tell me that it sucks.**

**On OCs names: I name minor OCs after historical figures. Martel came from Charles MARTEL and ERWIN Rommel (whom I idolize)**

**If you don't know who Henry Lincoln Johnson is, I would HIGHLY suggest looking him up. He's a badass. links don't work but fix it: badassoftheweek (dot) **


	12. Lock, Stock, and Barrel

**(I'd appreciate it if you read the Author's Notes; I swear it's not a psychotic rant about my personal life this time)**

**Wanna hear something crazy? Your feedback affects the story! It's a trip, I know. Note: Story, not plot; I'm pleased with myself, as I actually have all of this thought out. Perhaps not every single little detail, but you know what I mean. My problem is that I'm not exactly sure what you guys want/will tolerate. I feel like I'm stepping into fairly uncharted waters here, and as such I feel like I don't really have anything to base the content on (if you know what I mean). The last thing I want to do is get out of touch with my readers. Trust me when I say this: every little bit of praise is appreciated, and every little bit of criticism is VERY appreciated. If you have an opinion about something, then you're probably not the only one. So tell me. That, however, doesn't mean I will make changes based on your comment. But it can't hurt. I will always TRY to respond (sometimes so little is said that I can't think of anything to say) and if you have a question I will ALWAYS answer it to the best of my abilities. Granted, that response may be a bit weird.**

**Prime examples of what I like in reviews: Any review that dropout has given (read one and you'll know what I mean. You rock, by the way). A review that I got a while back that was like "hey this is pretty good. When is Edward gunna come in, homie g-dawg?" (paraphrased, albeit) Why I liked it: This is a prime example of what I was talking about in the paragraph above. Ed was always included in my plot. However, there started to be a conflict of interest in my head. I hang around the Royai section, so I honestly didn't realize that anybody cared much about Ed. So I was all like, "should I put him in there at all?" Well, that review made me realize that people DO in fact hold interest in him, which means I can have him in his fully planned part. Third example: that dude who said "Wow this chapter sucked. You indulged yourself WAAAY too much, and it's full of far too many OCs, and it switches around too much. I'm not trollin', but this could have been a lot better." Okay, so nobody actually said that, but I would love them if they did (and meant it of course).**

**Now I know I'm a review whore. I've spent a lot of time growing and culturing my reputation as such. This is not about that. While, for most everything else, half of why I love reviews is for the little blue number, I honestly just want to know how to make this the best possible. And thanks to my other regular reviewers, Wildfiredreams, and of course Anonymous Candybar.**

General Heat thumbed the table he was sitting at impatiently, waiting for the "asset" to show his face. Martel was getting impatient, and he was the last person that Heat wanted on his bad side. This was the last chance he had to speed his little war up into action, and so long as everything went as planned, would work without a hitch. As soon as his man showed up. Any time now.

He heard the door swing open and turned to see a tall ragged kid walk into the diner. The man, no older than eighteen, scanned the room and his eyes fell onto Heat. Luckily his hair, now neatly trimmed and no longer than half an inch, defined his presence; he was wearing his civvies due to the nature of the meeting. It wouldn't to have him seen with the man he was meeting with, and people tended to notice the star a lot more than they noticed the bird. Casually, he took a drink from his coffee. The signal that it was in fact him. Recognizing the sigh, the kid took a seat across from Heat.

"I wanna kill them all." The kid's spirit enthusiasm eased his mind about the op. His loose mouth, however, did not.

"Hush, son. People around her do not like to hear about the farmer's task of slaughtering livestock. Too civilized to acknowledge such necessary tasks."

"Uh, of course. Wouldn't want to shock them, I guess." Good. The boy wasn't so inept that he couldn't pick up on the small nuances. "So I take it you have a plan for where to, uh, execute the animals." Though he could work on his subtlety.

"Something you must learn as a farmer, Peter, is that if they know you're coming with the hatchet, then they'll just flee and you'll never catch it. You have to strike it when it least expect it."

"And when is that?"

"While it eats." He could tell Peter was starting to get excited. 'Revenge is a poor man's game." How true. It was also a fool's endeavor.

"I do have a problem. I do not have a hatchet." Heat gave a slight ah and fished into his holster. He produced a large caliber revolver, and smirked. How poetic.

"Here's your hatchet," he said, slamming the gun down on the table.

(PAGE BREAK)

"Sergeant Johnson was hospitalized with a total of twenty one injuries, having been shot by everything from shotguns, rifles, and grenades, and had lacerations from bayonets. He had singlehandedly defended his position and his comrade from over twenty enemy soldiers, so one would expect him to receive a Presidential Citation, or at least the Black Schadens that he deserved, but President Abrams didn't want to give a black boy any type of award, so instead he got court-martialed for an offense he didn't commit and received a dishonorable discharge." The whole affair still pressed down on Felix. Henry had been a…good friend… of his, and the way his government, the government that he had given his life and fate to, had fucked him over like yesterday's garbage.

"He died shortly after he got discharged." The nice way of putting it. He wouldn't volunteer his knowledge of how he had died, how Henry had looked at him when he forced Henry's own pistol to his temple, in order to make it look as though he killed himself. It was almost as if he didn't even care that he was being assassinated. "By the record, he committed suicide after his wife left him with his children."

He changed the subject forcibly, not wanting to dwell on the event any longer. "Martel led us on a rat chase soon after I was accepted into Foxtrot, more than likely to test my abilities. He wanted to know reports and rumors were true, which was actually why he put me in Foxtrot in the first place. Olivier was his favored field commander, and he was testing the waters."

* * *

"We have a new assignment." Khalid rolled his eyes. So far he'd been here for a month, and all they'd done was go on search and retrieve missions, void of any form of action or combat. The only chances he had to discharge his rifle were at the range. His blade hungered for the life of his enemies, and he hadn't had the chance to satisfy its appetite.

"Let me guess. Some dumbass civie couldn't tell the butt from the business of his rifle, and now we have to go save his ass from himself." The men of his unit laughed before being hushed by Colonel Armstrong's glare.

"Mr. Cucklesbutter was a valuable politician, and it'd be best for you to not question the importance of keeping civilians from death." Despite her uptightness about it, Khalid saw the slight grin she gave. When they found Cucklesbutter, they only injuries he had sustained had been from his own rifle, and she had even admitted to Khalid that she had about killed him herself out of irritancy. Something about how he was lucky that she wasn't the one who got to make the decision, because dumbasses like him didn't deserve to live.

"So who's it this time, Colonel?" Armstrong crossed her arms.

"I told you that we wouldn't have to go on any more non-combative assignments, didn't I?" Yes, she had, but the oath had been taken out of frustration, and nobody took it seriously. "Well, I got you something a little more fun to do." A Corporal gave an OohRah and some other's echoed their agreement. "The Grapes have set up an observation post in the hills south from here, and Intel has it that a group of high ranking officers will be inspecting it in three days. Battalion has assigned Foxtrot to sweep in and take out the officers and the observation post down in one strike. Once we over run the building we're to search for further Intel that is suspected to be there."

Khalid was practically giddy with excitement the rest of the day. When he got back to his apartment (Armstrong had personally taken it upon herself to have a talk with the quartering officer about his living space) he prepared his mental psyche for the mission. Cleaning his rifles, checking his equipment, doing more pushups than he bothered to count, and finally retreating into his mental complex to anticipate the act of killing.

He was no rookie by any means. While this was the first major conflict he had participated in, he had been in many counter rebellion and anti-terrorism units before, and wasn't a stranger to death. But this could foreshadow bigger and better things. If they performed well then they would be entrusted with more combat missions. Or better, they would get placed on the frontlines. It was nearly torture the way Martel held the Platoon on the back end of the lines. If a war officially broke out, which this mission just might do, he was scared of getting assigned to defend Southern, rather than getting his bayonet wet.

During the briefing Colonel Armstrong had promised that if everyone kept their fingers on the trigger and they relied on their instincts, everything would be fine.

It wasn't. The whole mission resulted in a cluster fucked wipeout, and it all could be blamed on one thing: Military Intelligence. The two words truly didn't belong in the same sentence, and this had been a prime example of why. Not only was the observation post about three miles north of where the reports had said, how they messed that up Khalid had no idea, but the damn thing was a set up from the beginning. They had stormed in full bravado, guns raised to see a group of dummies with silver stars pinned to their chests. Before they even had a chance to realize what was going on, shit started to hit the fan.

The dummies exploded, more than likely on a delayed proximity charge, killing half the strike team. When those sounded, a war cry was heard and their position was charged from all directions. Grenades exploded, bullets tore through flesh, and when ammunition was low, bayonets were not out of the question. All in all it was quite a remarkable scene; their platoon of sixty held their out against about two hundred enemy Craetians. Despite the overwhelming odds, The Guard showed its strength and after all was said and done, both sides were completely decimated. Khalid and Colonel Armstrong were the only surviving able bodied survivors.

Armstrong was sitting on piece of rubble, probably from a tank that had been blown to pieces, with a heavy look in her eyes.

"You can't blame this on yourself." Khalid should have felt awkward, consoling an officer, especially an O-5 as she was, but this was no place for order. This was anarchy. The two of them were the only ones alive for God knows how many miles, and it wasn't the time for anyone to try and pull rank. This was survival. "You can blame Martel for not giving you the proper recourses, or better yet you can blame the dumbasses at Recon, but you did everything as best as you could." Even if it wasn't true, which it was, it needed to be said. If either one of them was going to make it out of this alive, neither of them could fall into the hole of self pity.

She didn't respond for at least ten seconds and when she did it was without saying a word. She just looked to him and nodded. Standing up, she scooped up her embossed saber off the ground and wiped it off on her uniform.

"What are our assets?" He nearly laughed at the question.

"Assets? Your sword, my knife, some oddly shaped pieces of blown up trucks." No foods, only their own canteens of water, not even a goddamned roadmap. "And the knowledge that if we head west we will _eventually _find Amestris." She looked at the sun in the sky and turned around.

"Then let's not fuck around here any longer than we have to. The sooner we leave the better chance we have at surviving." He couldn't help but admire her drive. Sheathing his own blade, he started to follow her.

The ordeal was hell. For the first day they walked and walked, without finding anything but the open planes of Craeta. They knew that they had to ration their water supply, so they refrained from drinking until absolutely necessary. They continually kept an eye out for food, but they never saw a single thing. No rabbit, no buffalo, no deer. Not even scavenging birds on the horizon.

On their fourth day they found another massacre like they had come from. Again, no survivors, but the battle had obviously gone to the Craetians. Olivier found a canteen, but not before Khalid had gotten desperate. He was so dehydrated that he was periodically collapsing. He didn't have the energy to search the bodies. In reckless abandon, he started to make cuts in the bodies of the dead and drink their blood to soothe his thirst. It was desperate, yes. Vile and disgusting. But _he_ was desperate, and the last things on his mind were ethical codes.

The sun was making them crazy. It was by miracle alone that neither had sustained any type of serious injury from the ambush, and Khalid had only Ishval to thank for that. It took the three more days for them to find civilization. A small city on the outskirts of West Amestris, they had walked through the city gates and Olivier had collapsed. Khalid, sustained on the iron and water from the blood he drank, managed to stumble to a Military Outpost and get help before blacking out himself.

* * *

"That was when the war officially started. It was actually a really clever move by Craeta; it not only gave them the advantage for first strike, but it also gave them sympathy to the public. We attacked them, and though they were ultimately responsible, it worked well for their propaganda machine." It was getting late, and the bitch of a nurse would be in here any time to check up on him and order him to sleep. He looked to Hawkeye and saw the confusion in her face.

"Why are you telling me all this?" He let out a short laugh at her question.

"If I'm boring you, then by all means…"

"No, it's not that. It just, why do you suddenly feel the need to open up? And why to me?"

"Because you came back. The only reason you would back was because your master, and my Command, ordered you too. Don't think I'm an idiot, Hawkeye. I can see what's going on behind that lovely forehead of yours, and I know that you're just here to learn about me." She half smirked at his response.

"So like a good little boy, you're doing what your Command wants to do."

"I've served under a lot of men, and for the most part they have been Bureaucratic power hungry ass holes who have ordered me to do things that no man should have to do. But I always follow orders, no matter how outrageous. If I was ordered to kill every single man woman and child in this hospital, then I would do so without hesitation." When he had said that her own sins had flashed in front of her, and she understood his sentiment. She had seen faces of children explode in her rifle scope.

"We're soldiers. Murderers." She was surprised by a self satisfied grin that appeared on his face as he placed his arms behind his head.

"No. I'm no murderer. A soldier, yes, but not a murderer."

"How can you say that? How many have you killed? How many will it take for you to accept your sins?" Felix sat up to a sitting position and reached over to Hawkeye. Gently, he dragged her pistol out of its holster. It was obvious that she had to mentally restrain herself from swatting his hand away. He brought it to eye level, the muzzle pointing to the ceiling.

"Is this gun evil? Is this gun a murderer? Is it responsible for the death of any one person?" She nearly rolled her eyes at the tired argument.

"Don't bother saying it. We've all heard the response; we've all used the excuse."

"If you were ordered, presumably by the Fuehrer when we had one, to put a bullet through you're lover's eyes, would you? Would you kill Roy Mustang?" Though she didn't see the relevance of the question, she shook her head firmly. The idea of Roy dead… She wasn't even sure if she could have pulled the trigger when he had nearly lost himself in rage. She had put on a tough face and said things that sounded real, but she doubted that she could have followed through.

"And that's why you can't _use_ the excuse. I can. Because I will do anything that my commanding officer orders me to, so long as he has the authority."

Seeing the look in his eyes, she could tell that he meant what he said. It was almost like that idea, the idea that all the blood of the lives he took resided on the hands of his officers, was his last stronghold to his sanity. Briefly, she recalled what he had told her was his job in the Ishballan Extermination Campaign. To hunt down and kill the Ishballan warrior monks. Though at the time it seemed heartless, just the same as the rest of the damn war, she now realized that it was exactly as he said.

Just him and his adversary. No tricks, no ideology, no prejudice. Man versus man. Even if the monk didn't realize they were of the same race, Felix did, and that was that really mattered, she supposed.

"That doesn't mean I don't feel for those who die under my blade. But I can't feel guilty, because _I'm just the weapon_."

The nurse came, as promised, after he said that, and Felix wordlessly dismissed Riza with a look that told her that she didn't want to deal with the lady if possible. As she walked out the door, she continued to digest everything that Felix had told her.

**Okay, so I tried to tell the Khalid story in a different style. I wanted it to seem like he wa telling the story, rather than it actually happening. Did it work, or did it suck?**


	13. A Car Drive Home

**I figured it would come to this.**

**So let's rewind a couple months. Remember when I was like "I like Roy being blind! It works!" Yeah well as of now Chapter 104 irrelevant. Duh. Oh, I don't have a fucking clue as to how Arakawa is gunna pull out of the this one…**

**On a side note I found the MOST EPIC pic EVER while looking through my friends internet folder. It's like, AmERicA. I'm talkin' In front of Old Glory a wavin', Star Spangled Banner singin', Gun totin', Freedom Fry eatin', old school Patton AMERICA! Words cannot describe how awesomely American it is, despite my best efforts. Like, Captain America Storming Normandy with a Tommy Gun. Fickin awesome. Needless to say, it is now my proud new background.**

**On a(nother) side note, I totally LAYED DOWN THE LAW again in Axis and Allies. Russia bumfucked Germany Whilst America, well, did its thing against Japan. lol. Russia FTW!**

This was not the place that he wanted to be. A rock and a hard place, no. More like a wall and a shotgun. He wished he didn't mean that literally. He wished that the two large men with monkey suits and Remington 870's weren't looking at him like they would have loved the opportunity to feel the recoil from the guns they were holding. He wished that the small man in between the two wasn't who he was. But more than anything he wished that Roy Mustang had never asked him to make a deal with the devil.

"What are you doing in my shop, Mr. Siegel?" He was trying to speak in a polite tone, but the unease was obvious.

"Please, Mr. Havoc, call me Jimmy." His caramelled candy smile was as fake as it was sweet. "I have an issue that I've been trying to resolve." Somehow that didn't ease Jean's mind.

"And what would that have to do with me?" Mr. Siegel walked toward him casually after placing his hat on the hat pole.

"You know, Mr. Havoc, it may not seem like I'm the biggest fan of society. It may seem like that I dislike law and order, and any form of the government. It may seem like I support any type of attack on 'the Man', given what I do for a living." His cheap grin dropped for a second. "It may seem like that, but let me assure you, it's not true. I love this country. This country has been good to me, despite my business not necessarily… agreeing… with those in power. I may have my ins and outs with the police here and then, but let me assure you, they are more games than anything else. What I don't like, what I don't agree with, is when some _fucker_ waltzes around _my city, _shoots _my clients,_ and wages war on _my country_! Especially when they're using _my guns_!" His voice, which had been raising into a shout throughout his monologue, suddenly dropped down to its calm and collected state. "Why are you giving my guns to terrorists, Mr. Havoc?"

Jean wasn't sure if he should be relieved or even more worried. "What makes you think that I've been supplying guns to terrorists, Mr. Siegel?"

"Don't think me stupid, _Mr. Havoc_. I sold you guns. Guns that you can't buy in this country. And then, a month later, suddenly those guns show up in the hands of a bunch of dead beat Drachmann terrorist _thugs_! I can put two and two to-fucking-gether!" His face got all puffy and red, and Jean probably would have found it amusing if he wasn't surrounded by two men, who were quite a bit larger that he was _before_ he sat in a wheelchair, and who clearly didn't mind using their strength on a crippled man.

"I can tell you with complete honesty that I did not give those guns to terrorists. Are you sure that you're the only one who sells these guns in this country?"

"You're kidding me, right? Who do I look like? Fuckin' Chumli the Chump?"

"Then how do you 'know' that I was the one who gave the guns to the Drachmann's?"

"There were only two orders that were large enough to arm the Drachmann's that attacked the Military. I do my background checks on my customers, Mr. Havoc. You used to be Military, before you were injured. You hold a grudge. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out, especially when the other is still in the Military, which rules him out."

"I can assure you, Mr. Siegel, that I do not hold a grudge against the State. If anything I- waitaminute. You said the other guy was still in the Military…?" Jean suddenly didn't care about his own safety. If the other order came from the inside, then… "What was his name?"

"Uh, it was some Colonel or something. Heath or something like that. Wait, why do you care?" Siegel was clearly thrown off from having his position turned on him.

"Because it wasn't me. In fact, the guns I bought from you went to a friend of mine in the General Staff. But if the other guy, Colonel Heath, had the only order large enough, then that means someone on the inside is behind this. What did he look like?"

"He was large. Had red hair. He was probably about fifty or so. I hope you're not lying to me, Mr. Havoc."

"I'm not. Can you give me a ride to HQ? I need to talk to someone."

(PAGE BREAK)

"I think I deserve a reward, Lieutenant." He knew exactly what the roll of her eyes looked like. "I've been working real hard, and my fingertips hurt…" He knew that his whiny tone would set something off for her, more of an irritance than anything else that gave him a foothold to work with.

"You haven't worked a day in your life, General." Damn, she was sexy. Just her voice turned him on, the strict edge in her words reminding him of her icy glare. Sometimes he considered "accidentally" burning his stack of undone files, just so he could listen to her chew him out. She would probably never know what that voice did to him, nor did he plan on letting her know, less she might stop using it. He briefly wondered if anyone else in the office found it as arousing as he did, and arrived to the conclusion that they probably didn't. He had come to terms with his love for her a long time ago, and when he was completely honest with himself he found just about everything she did attractive.

Some things just more so than others.

"That's not true and you know it. When we were under your Grandfather I did twice the work I do now."

"And you were still ignoring half of your work. The rules are the same now as they were back then." Her damn rules. Well, they could be pushed aside with enough coaxing, and that was exactly what he intended to do. Finishing his paperwork would be easier and faster, perhaps, but certainly not as fun.

"If I remember correctly it wasn't all that uncommon for me to break those rules, and you never seemed to mind much when I did. Neither during the rule breaking, nor afterward."

"Trust me sir, I would mind right now. Don't you have a proposal to work on? You know how important it is." He knew what she was trying to do, and it wasn't going to work. "You don't want the burden of a country going to war just because you couldn't keep your hands to yourself on your shoulders."

"Already written, point and counterpoint. In fact, I think that I have too much on mind to give a decent presentation. You don't want the burden of a country going to war just because your commanding officer couldn't keep his mind on his task, do you?" He smirked knowing that his argument held no water.

"Somehow I think that would only cause you to be more distracted, sir." Roy approached her desk and gently leaned on her shoulder.

"Well then, how distracted do you think you could make me, Lieutenant?" A mix of his cologne, the arm he had around her waist, and his vague innuendoes made her shudder a bit; probably not enough to notice visually, but he could feel it resonate through her body. He took the opportune moment to chew on her earlobe and he felt her body purr once more.

"Will you get all of your work done afterward?" She asked after a moment of thought. He grinned ear to ear in response.

"No."

"Then you know the answer." He smiled mischievously, deciding to take advantage of her ambiguity. After turning her so that he was looking straight at him, he quickly covered her lips with his. Her response pleased him; while he couldn't feel the movement of her response, she didn't withdrawal either. She wanted him as well, and the only thing that was separating them was her will power.

Of course, her will power was nothing to be scoffed at. He would have to change his tactics from the conventional seduction if he wanted to get any, and he definitely wanted some. Maybe strike a deal or something, but promising her satisfaction had gone as far as it would. He withdrew from her mouth and smiled at her, wondering what kind of emotion her eyes held.

Naturally it surprised him when he felt her return the intimate gesture. He arms wrapped around his neck and his head, and there was something different about the way she was caressing his lips. Almost as if she was asking for comfort rather than pleasure, entertainment. It was then that he realized that he was probably being the world's biggest asshole. Not by his own fault, but that didn't change the problem. He had learned to read her emotions so well, being able to tell when she needed comfort at a second's glance, but now that he couldn't see her there was no way of telling when she was in need of him. He cradled her in his arms, all thoughts of sex having left his mind. He could hear her calming breaths escape her lungs, accentuated by the slight heaving of her chest.

She lay in his arms for a few minutes before he felt her come onto his lips once again in a heated passion. And Roy could tell it was faked. Knowing that it was faked made him feel even more like an asshole, and bitterred the otherwise sweet sensation.

"Riza, you don't have to…"

"Make up your mind already, Roy. A minute ago you were ready to burn my clothes off, now you're telling me to back off? Having a hard time getting it up or something?" Roy rolled his eyes out of instinct.

"Stop it. Dammit Riza, I love you, but-"

"What?" Huh? He didn't know what she was confused about. He hadn't said anything that… "What did you say?"

"I love you?" She was silent and that was when he realized what he had said. Or rather, what he hadn't said. He had taken it as a given; he loved her and she loved him. The thought that he had never told her hadn't really occurred to him.

* * *

Earlier that day Riza went to the hospital to drive Felix home. He had been in perfect health, and after the doctors ran some physical and psychological they had no problem releasing him. They did warn her that his since his muscles hadn't been used in a month, he wouldn't be in peak physical condition, but that came as no surprise. Anyway, it was nothing that they could fix, so staying at the hospital any longer would just further the problem and ring up the bill.

Most of the drive was in silence, but she could tell that he was restless.

"Have you been keeping regular with your CQB?" It was odd. With that one question he managed to change their position from officer and enlisted to student and teacher.

"Yeah, but it seems a bit pointless. I guess a month or two with you made everyone seem kind of slow and weak." Felix grinned.

"That's the idea. You might have an advantage when we get back; my technique should be fine, but my arms have really gone to shit. I probably won't be as fast as I normally would be." Somehow Riza doubted it would make too much of a difference. The awkward silence hung over them for a few more minutes before Felix started talking again.

"Why do you do it?"

"What?" She could see him look at her through the corner of her eyes as she kept her main focus on the road.

"Why are you in the military? It's not because you're a soldier. You don't enjoy the hierarchy, or the killing, so why?" There didn't answer him. She didn't normally enjoy throwing her thoughts, her past out for everyone to see, but the fact that it was Felix made it even less desirable. It wasn't that she despised him, not anymore. It was just… He had a way of figuring things out by himself, and it still unnerved her how much he could read from her. "It's because of Mustang, isn't?"

Kind of like that.

"And what makes you think that?"

"The way you act around him. Especially during the attack. When you're around him, he takes precedence over everything, and when he's in danger you act like a woman possessed. You love him don't you?" The word sounded foreign in his mouth.

"You don't strike me as the kind of person who buys into that kind of thing."

"There is nothing to 'buy into'. Love is a very real emotion, governed by chemicals and synapses in your brain. I'd be a fool to ignore it." Riza's hands tightened around the wheel. "And again I say: You love him, don't you?"

"I don't know what love has to do with it. If I 'love' him… well, he doesn't return the feelings. He likes me, loves me as a friend perhaps, but I'm not the one that he wants to spend the rest of his life with." The thought almost made her laugh n amusement. Roy, pleasure obsessed playboy that he was, settling down. The thought was almost comical.

"Oh. I get it." His mouth formed into a Cheshire cat grin. "So you're just the slut he keeps around the office." Her hand instinctually flinched, but she restrained it from making contact with the side of his face.

"Do you make a conscious effort to try and get people to hate you, or does it just come naturally?"

"I do it on purpose. And before you try to deny any facts, just now that it doesn't take a genius to figure out what's happening behind the closed doors of your soundproof office. Especially when both of you reek of sex." Oh yeah, she forgot she was dealing with Felix the super soldier. Of course he would pick up on something like that. "The thing is, I can't accept you for someone who just does it because you enjoy it. So why?"

"I love him."

"So you do it because you want as much of him as you can get? I don't think that's the case, Miss Hawkeye. I think it's to control him." Bingo. "If there is one thing that I've learned about you it's that you like to be in control of your environment. That's why you feel uncomfortable around me. I'm an unknown variable. You can't control me, or at least you don't know how to. "She hadn't thought about it that way before, but it sounded about right. "You think that by banging Mustang, you can keep him away from other women, and then you can manipulate him the most."

"You're wrong, actually."He widened his eyes in surprise. "It is a way of controlling him, and I'm ashamed to admit that, but it's not just so I can keep him to myself." Felix turned away from her and lost himself in his mind before something clicked.

"At the ball, you would stop at nothing to find and protect him. That's what this is about, isn't it?" She nodded her head slightly.

"He's been throwing around the idea of having me transferred for a long time. 'So that I'm not always putting my life in danger', or something like that."

"So you give him what he wants in an effort to use his sex drive against him." He concluded for her. "There's one problem with your little plan, though. You're thinking of him as too much a stereotypical man. Men don't think with their dicks."

"I'm going to call bullcrap on that one."

"For men, everything is a contest to see who hast the biggest balls. We don't want to admit it, but we care a lot less about sex than everybody wants to think, and it's exactly because of that. Trust me; when push comes to shove, a man won't hesitate to give up everything he has to save those he loves."

"Roy doesn't love me."

"I hope you're right, because if you aren't your little controllable world just got another thing that can shake it to the ground."

* * *

Now that he had just claimed his love for her, casually, which meant that he just assumed that she new, Riza felt her controllable little world start to shake to the ground. Dammit Felix, why did he have to right?

"I… I love you too…" she managed to push out. She could feel his hand against her hair and vaguely registered his voice telling her that he knew she did in her ear.

"It's alright, Riza, we don't have too… we can just sit here. I'm alright with that." That was the last thing she wanted to hear. The last of her false pillars started to crumble, and she wasn't sure how much longer she could maintain her hold on everything. "Are you alright?" She nodded her head.

"I'll be alright; I just need to thing about some things." She got up out of his lap and left the room, retreating to the last stronghold that she could claim her own.

"Where are you going, Lieutenant?" It was a practical question, asked as her superior.

"To the range, sir. I haven't been in a while, and I need to brush up on my marksmanship."

**Not happy with this. Anyway, there were some things I needed to address, and I got that done, so whatever. Sorry about the unusual updates, guys. As it turns out, Nephews and nieces take precedence over Fanfiction. Probably not going to update this weekend, either, due to me being stuck up in Mt. Baker, building an igloo to sleep in. Ho boy. Please review, feel free to tell me how much it sucks.**


	14. Aces and Eights

**I would like to apologize for some of my previous A/Ns. You must understand, I truly love Axis and Allies, and I get really carried away with it a result. But I should probably make an effort to have more class than that.**

**So, I just watched Tora! Tora! Tora! the other day, and my verdict: if you haven't seen this movie, then slap yourself. If you have seen "Pearl Harbor", but not this movie, then slap yourself again. Tora! Tora! Tora! = Epic. More than Epic. Realistic. The military politic in the movie is truly fascinating, and the views and opinions of the American and Japanese Admirals/ Generals were incredibly well portrayed. My respect for Admiral Yamamoto. **

**So, this is pretty cool, I just saw that the file on my document loader for the first chapter of this story expires today! That's pretty cool, to me.**

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Dammit Major, this is not the time to play hero. Keep your head down!" The man in black whipped his head around to them and pointed with his gun.

"You! You're Major Howard?" His Drachmann accent rolled out of his mouth.

"You can't get away with this. The Council will not bow down to a group of terrorist thugs. Soon this building will be surrounded and the only deal you will be making is the one that saves your life." The full bird Colonel looked at the Major like he was crazy.

"James, if you don't shut your mouth, you'll get us both killed. Get on the fucking ground!" James Howard turned to the Colonel and looked at him with disgust.

"I was not aware you were such a coward, Colonel Heat. Besides, we haven't even finished our lunch yet."

"And I didn't know you were suicidal!" The man in black's hands grabbed both of them by the scruff of their collar and dragged them to the window.

"Alex, are they watching?" the man spoke into his radio. A buzz of static came back, with something said that could be barely made out as an affirmative. The terrorist then took the Major and pressed him against the glass, holding his pistol to the back of his head. More buzz could be heard, but this time the "all clear" could be heard more clearly.

"Stop with your bullshit threatening. You don't have the balls to take a man's life you filthy-" Howards rambling protests were cut off by a gunshot and a splatter as the wall of blood hit the window in front of him.

"Ah. There we go." The man in black looked at Heat oddly and unassuredly pointed his pistol at him.

"Did you say something?" The colonel rolled his eyes and stood up from the ground.

"Put that gun down, Nikolas, before you shoot someone." The man blinked and then realization dawned on him.

"Your voice… you're Mr. X?"

"Ding ding, give the boy a cupie doll. You really are just a thug, aren't you? And as for your question, 'why?' it's because Howard here was poking his nose in places he shouldn't. He needed to be eliminated." Heat straightened his cuffs when the boom of a shot gun was heard.

"Shit, were-," Heat thrust his hand out to Nikolas.

"Hand me the gun." The typewriter ticks of a submachine gun were heard from inside the building that followed by a faded 'clear!' "Hand me the gun, _now._ I'm trained, and the better shot." Nikolas looked around nervously and hesitantly placed the gun in Heat's hands. Immediately, Heat brought the pistol up to Nikolas's head and placed a round between his eyes.

A clatter was heard from his right and he turned to see a man with blond hair, a knife, and a pistol jump over the counter of the diner. Pointing to the dead body of the terrorist with his gun, he declared his innocence.

"I was able to pry this man's weapon from him and use it against him." The soldier started to carefully advance toward him with his own pistol extended cautiously.

"Sir, drop the gun and place your hands above your head." Heat feigned his innocence by pretending to be shaken.

"But, I'm not the bad guy. The terrorist is dead." Heat knew that what he said would have no immediate consequence, but he needed to keep his act up.

"Sir, I need you to drop the gun and put your hands above your head."

"But I," before he finished, the man leapt an extraordinary distance and tackled him to the ground, disarming him in the process. Everything was over, and now Heat could truly start the motion of his plan.

* * *

"Aces and eights." Olivier looked around as Havoc, Felix, and Hawkeye each tossed their respective hands into the center of the table in forfeit. Greedily, she pulled the chips into her pile, and stacked them into the appropriate columns.

"I really don't know why I'm playing with you guys. Where's Breda and Fuery? They made this game fun." Havoc took a drag of his cigarette, quietly muttering to himself that it was the last one he would be able to afford in a while.

"I'm hoping you didn't spend too much time scamming Fuery out of his money, Jean. Especially on office time." Havoc, not making eye contact with Hawkeye, waved off her accusations.

"Never on office time. The only thing I ever did was my paperwork. Breda, however…" Hawkeye looked unconvinced, but let the topic go as she reshuffled the deck and dealt out the new hands. As Olivier looked at her new hand she frowned and tapped her fingers on the table. Despite the small victory from the lat hand, she was running low on money. She held no small illusions that she could best Felix n a poker hand, but with both him and Hawkeye, who was proving to be just as much of a card shark as Felix, she was faring miserably.

"We need to wrap this up soon." She said. "Master Gunnery Sergeant Kellogg still has some paperwork to do, and I need to check in with Fuery." Felix snorted.

"That is a bull faced lie. I don't have shit to do, and you don't even know where Fuery is." Partially true. She had a general idea, but that was about it.

"I know exactly where he is. Just because Mustang doesn't trust you, Felix, doesn't mean I'm left in the dark."

"Bullshit. Besides, the agreement was that the game doesn't end until you lose all your money, or until Command ends his little meeting." Olivier stared at her new hand, knowing that her pile of chips would not see any benefit from it.

Just then the doors of the office swung open and the man that Havoc brought to the office exited, head held high. His pinstripe suit gleamed even in the office light, and the white of his goatee reminded her slightly of her grandfather, though it was clear he did not hold the Armstrong genetics. An image of her brother flexing his muscles and spouting on about 'the generations' popped into her mind, and was to be immediately brushed to the side.

"Armstrong. I need to speak with you." She looked at Felix and grinned. Havoc groaned in response.

"Oh, Christ…." she heard him mutter as she stood up and left him to the hounds.

The door swung shut behind her Mustang walked back to his desk, tripping slightly as he did so, and cursing under his breath. He sat on his old chair for a moment, thinking to himself. He looked at home in the chair, and the fact didn't surprise her too much. His old office, his old desk, his old subordinates… She would be nostalgic as well. Her mind briefly wandered to her time in Briggs. As much as she liked it in ROSE, and she did like it, she felt that the atmosphere of Central was leaving her soft. She knew that she had been dubbed "The Ice Queen" and when she was completely honest with herself, she took pride in the title.

Mustang snapped out of his revere and addressed her directly.

"I believe I know who the man behind the attacks is."

* * *

Brigadier General Heat sat at table that he was sitting at a couple months ago in the Fifth District Café. The newspaper that he wasn't reading was about three days old, if anyone cared to check. It was to mark his identification to a man who he didn't really know, save for a few phone calls, and he would have normally preferred to keep it that way. As a general rule, he considered it bad form to personally know the men of the little terrorist cell that he had imagined up, and not only because he could be put to death for treason because of it. Only a fool would trust the men that he had dug up, especially when those men were motivated purely by money. He knew that they were unstable, and he respected that the more they knew of his identity the more likely it was that they would sell him out.

But at this point it was damn near a moot point. Peter, the boy who was meeting with him again today, was the last of the men that he hired. Both the attacks on the Café and the Military Ball had exhausted the imaginary cell of all of its assets. Heat couldn't have asked for a better situation. Only one more attack was needed to give the Council the push it needed, the push that tip the scale of decision, and Peter was just the man to deliver it. Soon Peter would be dead, and all the loose ends that tied Heat to any form of treason would be gone.

Through his newspaper Heat heard someone pull out the chair in front of him and take his seat. The newspaper hit the table and Peter's image graced Heat's eyes. He looked desperate, as expected. Heat was relieved by this, as any less might instill good judgment in the poor boy. The last thing he needed was an insurgent who wasn't committed.

"The pig's grown fat enough to slaughter." Despite the mechanic way he said it, Heat was pleased with his memory. He was half worried that the kid would forget that they could be bugged, and say something stupid like 'it's time to go killing!', much like he had before.

"Indeed. But this is no swine you're killing, son. Warthogs bite back." _Are you ready to die?_

"This is the animal that took my family?" Heat nodded, allowing the nonsubtlety to slip by. "Then I'm willing to give my life if that's what it takes."

"And it just might." Heat snapped open his briefcase to retrieve the manila envelope. Encased in the envelope were unmarked rounds for the .44 magnum that he had given to the kid earlier, rounds that would not lead the trail back to him. After Peter took the envelope from him, Heat stood from his chair and motioned to Peter to follow his lead. He knew that he was not wired, but the café could be, probably not but caution never hurt, and the prospect of being caught while so close was not desirable in the least.

"Your target is First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. She is the one responsible for your brother, Nikolas's death, and also the one who orchestrated the slaughter of you comrades," Heat told Peter once they were a fair distance from anything notable. The lie came smoothly off his tongue, Peter's own passion for vengence fueling the believability of it. "She goes on lunch break at around 12:15, so expect her to leave Head Quarter's about five minutes after that."

"What does she look like?"

"Mid-height, long blond hair that sweeps across her forehead. She'll be wearing her uniform, so she'll be easy to spot." Peter nodded. "One more thing. Don't rush it. Indentify her, and be sure of your target. Do you know how to kill?" Peter rolled his eyes and glared.

"I'm not an idiot. I've fired a gun, and I know how to shoot someone in the head."

"You can't just aim for the head. She could be hospitalized and survive it." He placed his hand on the back of Peter's head and searched for the small bump. Upon locating it placed Peter's own hand over it. "That's what is called the 'apricot'. If you shoot that, she will die instantly. No pain, but no chance of survival, either." The kid nodded his head. "You'll be up close, so it shouldn't be too hard to hit."

Passion rules reason. That, he could rely on. Passion, however, didn't always make a competent assassin. Although, the operation wasn't overly complicated; it wouldn't take a hit man to do it. A revenge bent teenage would have to work.

* * *

"Heat." The name sounded like acid coming from her mouth. The concept disgusted her. While they had never trusted him, the thought of him being a traitor… it had never even occurred to them. He had been the hostage. He had been the victim. But, then again, he was the mastermind behind it. When she thought about it, it wasn't inconsistent. Heat had been a hostage, but he wasn't the one who got killed. They had killed Major Howard, who just happened to be in Internal Affairs. And what had Heat been doing at the time? The Department of Terrorism, investigating the same terrorists that they were now accusing him of leading. If Howard suspected him, then it sure was a convenient for him when Howard got his brains blown out. Not only, that but it made Heat look innocent beyond a doubt.

And all that was fun to think about, except that there was no legitimate reason to suspect him. They didn't even have a motive. As if reading her mind, Mustang motioned out the door.

"That was James Siegel. You may have heard of him." No, she hadn't.

"You may forget, Mustang, but I've been living in a frozen wasteland for the past few years."

"Ah. My mistake. Siegel is the mob lord of Central. As of five months ago, he runs the _only_ crime syndicate in this city. He is also the source that Havoc goes through to get our supply of weapons. Today he accused Havoc of supplying the terrorists that assaulted the Military a month ago with his weapons." The idea of a Mafia boss pointing fingers at would be terrorists didn't exactly seem to fit with her, but she dismissed it. "Obviously Havoc was not supplying the guns. Those guns were going to us. But, there was another client he had. One that he dismissed because of his position in the military.

"All those guns that the terrorists used, the guns that cannot have been acquired any other way save for smuggling, were acquired through Heat."

So the evidence was there. If the Central mob was anything like it's counterpart in Northern, they had the records that could connect Heat to the guns, and by the sounds of it Siegel wouldn't hesitate to cooperate. Especially if immunity was offered. She wanted to say 'Where is he? I can haul him down here before lunch time and we can have his ass in jail for treason before bedtime.' She wanted to say that, but she knew that she couldn't do that. They didn't have any _real_ evidence, other than that of the Mafia, all of it was circumstantial, and the evidence from Siegel could easily be dismissed as falsified reports. Documents recording illegal transactions were typically only accepted as evidence when presented against the Mafia itself.

The situation wasn't what one would call desirably. Yes, it could be worse, and she was relieved that they had a solid base to work with, but they still had a long way to go before they could undertake any actions. Olivier saw lots of records and evidence samples in her future.

Mustang dismissed her after exchanging a few formalities, and Olivier ordered her thoughts for a place to start. Walking back into the main office area she was reminded of the poker game. It was long over, and all of Havoc's chips resided in front of Hawkeye and Felix. She wasn't surprised. It was good timing on Mustangs part that she had escaped with a small surplus, rather than being in the same position Havoc was in. Havoc miserably asked her for a cigarette and she noticed a thin white stick hanging from Felix's self satisfied smirk. Shaking her head in response she started to head for the door when Hawkeye called out to her.

"Are you taking lunch?" Olivier replied with an affirmative and Hawkeye continued. "If you don't mind, I'd like to join you. My treat. Or rather, Jean's treat…"

"If you don't mind walking across town. I was planning on going to the 5th District Café." Hawkeye agreed and they set out lunch together.

The walk was pleasant, the spring air rejuvenating their lungs from the long hours they spent inside the office. The City was in its usual chaotic mess, perhaps more so due to the time, and it was impossible for them to take in their surroundings as both had a tendency to do. By the time they arrived at the Café both were subtly relieved to be out of the streets. That comfort, however, was soon subsided for another discomfort.

It was odd, eating in the restaurant that saw the murder of an Officer of the State. Foreboding, almost. She could still recall the layout of the building from the memories etched in her brain. The sound of the gunshot that started their crusade echoed in her mind. It seemed like a lifetime ago, yet she remembered it as though it was yesterday.

To their credit, the food was good. Damn good, even.

"This is nice," she stated. "But why? Don't you normally have lunch with your General? Did you suddenly realize that he is, in fact, as incompetent as he seems?"

"Honestly? I've gotten sick of all the testosterone. Between the General, Kellogg, Breda, and my dog, it's like a men's locker room in there. I've dealt with it for years, but it's wearing me out." She gave a short laugh at the statement. Olivier knew exactly what she meant. The Military was one big sausage fest, and she herself sometimes worried that her chest would start sprouting hairs.

"I can sympathize. Sometimes, I feel like going out and doing something extraordinarily feminine, just to shake everyone up. Like, going and getting a pedicure, or shoe shopping." The image she saw of herself trying on dozens of different shoes made her laugh. Somehow, all of the shoes were black Military issue boots.

"We should paint the entire office pink, just to piss everyone off." Despite the uncharacteristic giggles, the thought made her stomach lurch.

"Ugh. I hate pink." Riza nodded in agreement.

"Me too."

* * *

The Uniform still felt awkward on Peter. It wasn't that it didn't fit right, but more that he was wearing the clothes of those he despised. It was necessary, however, and he would just have to bear with it.

Peter looked at his watch and decided to wait another minute or so before entering the Café in order to allow the two to get comfortable. It had taken him slightly off guard, seeing the two women exit together. Mr. X had only made mention of one, and he couldn't help but have doubts as to whether one of them was the target. Ultimately, however, he came to the conclusion that one of them was, and started to silently follow them to their destination.

They both fit the description, in all actuality, so he had devised a plan to determine which one Hawkeye was. The image of their heads getting blown away excited him on a base level. These were the ones responsible for his brother's deaths, and he would have their revenge. He might get killed himself in the process, but that was unimportant. He could finally put his family to rest, and that above all else made him nearly giddy with excitement. He subconsciously fingered the hammer of the revolver in his pocket.

The restaurant they stopped at sickened him. It was here that Nikolas, his brother who was in truth his blood brother, was murdered. The bitches were coming here to celebrate their kill! The prospect of seeing through their heads seemed even sweeter now, and he had to stop himself from charging at them right then and there. No, he had to be patient, as hard as it was. He couldn't let himself screw this up.

Finally, after waiting five minutes for them to get settled he took out his gun and hid it behind the clipboard. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the doors.

* * *

Riza was amazed at how well the two of them were getting along. They didn't share the same interests, but rather than clashing like she thought they would they clicked. It was an amazing stress reliever, and she couldn't help but look forward to future lunch breaks that she took with Olivier.

And the food was great. She was chewing on her sandwich as Olivier told a story about a prank that she pulled on her CO when she was a Captain when an MP walked through the door with a clipboard

"1st Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye?" the man asked to the room. Riza had her mouth full, so Olivier answered for her.

"What do you want?" In response the clipboard fell to the ground and a large handgun was produced. With one meaningful movement the muzzle of the gun was brought to the back of Olivier's skull and the sharp crack of a gunshot rang into the air.

**Okay, so a rare happening has occurred; I'm actually happy with this chapter. Which means that now would be the best time to put me in my place! Flame away!**


	15. The Death of Riza Hawkeye

**Okay, so I know I SAID "Wednesday" and Im sorry bout that, but my compy was/is having MAJOR issues. So no promises until I get it fixed.**

**Guess what you don't listen to? Morphine. You should slap yourself because of that. No, I'm not joking. Slap yourself. I'm serious. No, don't go on reading this, thinking, 'oh, he's not being serious' because I am serious. Do it. There, that's better. Now, you may wonder how I know you don't listen to Morphine. Well, that's because nobody does, and that is a sin. Nobody has listened to this wonderful combination of music that I have deemed jazzbluesrock, which is a real shame, as they are one of the best bands EVER , and I'm not just saying that because I play the Bari Sax (though it certainly doesn't hurt my opinion of it.) Honestly, they're fucking amazing.**

**Okay, so there's a REALLY weird scene (or maybe it was just really awkward to write) in here, so just deal with, I guess. You'll probably know what I mean.**

Name: Paul Tidbus Enola

Rank: Captain

Branch: Royal Presidential Guard

MOS: Engineer

Bio: (The following has been removed for security purposes by GEN Erwin Martel. It can be located in the national archives in the General Quarters by those with Alpha clearance, or clearance to files linked to the Eastern Project)

* * *

Riza Hawkeye had thought that she was a good soldier. She had years of experience under her belt, a large portion of that experience being combat experience, she had seen the defeat of a corrupt government earning a scar and a Black Schaden in the process, and boasted an accuracy with her rifle that was exceptional, even for a sniper. She was loyal as a dog, willing to put down her own life for her superiors without a seconds hesitation, and made the office that she worked in a well oiled machine rather than the train wreck it would be if she wasn't there to whip it into shape. She was the propaganda poster child for Military Discipline.

And yet she sat there. As the man dropped his clipboard and brought his revolver up to Olivier's head, she sat there. As the trigger was pulled and the cylinder was rotated, as the hammer pulled pack and slammed forward, she sat there. As the bullet accelerated through the woman in front of her, she sat there. As the blood splattered against her own face and Olivier's head fell down and smacked the table, limp and lifeless, she sat there.

And then she fully realized that she was not a good soldier.

It wasn't until she saw the man turn the gun to her that her instincts took over. It was almost a surreal feeling, the way her body leapt forward, shoving his gun away and twisting his arm in a way that brought the gun into her control. She felt like she was watching herself do it, rather than actually making the motions. He was stronger than her, which wasn't surprising to her, but she knew how to use his size to her advantage. She could hit any number of pressure points that he left wide open. He was struggling a lot, so to incapacitate him, she emptied a round into his kneecap. The gun had a surprisingly large kick, though it was nothing she couldn't handle. In fact, it felt very familiar.

The assassin seemingly lost interest in her and concentrated entirely on the hole in his right leg and the task of screaming as loudly as he could. The restaurant was in mass panic by the time that Riza started focusing on the task of locating a phone to call HQ with. No amount of yelling for everyone to stay calm had worked, and everyone avoided her like the plague. _Ironic,_ she thought to herself. _I'm the one everyone should be thanking, not the one they should be afraid of_.

The adrenaline was still coursing through her veins, and while Olivier's death had registered in her mind, the gravity of the situation had not. In actuality this feeling was very foreign to her. She was a sniper, and as such there was a different rush that went along with it. It felt like smooth excitement, like an overseer watching over those that would bow to her mercy. Being in the field felt very different from being a sniper. The world seemed like it was rushing around her, yet her awareness was cranked to eleven, making the actual combat almost seem like it happened in slow motion. Everyone was on the same playing field, rather than the god-like feeling that sitting in a tower and picking people off gave her.

Even now, with no enemies, she felt the combat high in full drive. More than anything else she needed to get a hold of Roy, before the MPs taped the area. She found a phone in the office, which was abandoned, and called HQ through the ROSE office line. To her surprise the call was picked up by Roy himself, rather than the expected Fuery.

"You've reached the office of Civil Defense; this is Maj. General Roy Mustang speaking."

"Sir, I need you on location right away."

"Lieutenant? Where are you?"

"Fifth District. The same restaurant that was attacked."

"I'll be right there." And that was it. Riza finally sat down and took a deep breath. Now that the chemicals in her body were slowing down, the reality of what had just happened had just set in. Olivier was dead. The bullet had left an exit wound the size of Eastern Head Quarters and, by the looks of its location, had travelled straight through the medulla oblongata. On top of that, there was a screaming young man in the lobby of the café with a hole in his knee that she hadn't a clue what she would do with.

She chose to focus on the first thing that came into her vision; the revolver. As she studied it the more that feeling of its familiarity got stronger and stronger. She recalled firing it, and the abnormally large kick that it gave. This was no pea shooter. She swung open the cylinder and examined one of the rounds. Around the back of the bullet read ".44 mag wc HOLLOWPOINT". She suddenly remembered the gun that Felix had given her around the time he first met her, the same gun that she had tossed at Heat for him to defend himself with. Was this that gun? No, she was probably just being paranoid.

Swinging the pistol shut she got up went back into the lobby. Roy and the entourage he would take with him would arrive in about five minutes, but until then she had to hold the café herself. The assassin was seething in the place he had landed, trying to cut the blood flow to his leg with his hands. She now saw that close to the entire leg had been blown off from the bullet, and the only thing that attached it to his body was a strip of flesh the side of the entry wound. More than likely this was due to the hollow tips that were chambered in the gun, and the size of the round itself.

The leg was bleeding everywhere, and the effort of keeping it in one piece was a lost cause. Perhaps it could be surgically reattached, but that was something that the doctors could worry about. Right now she needed to stop the blood loss. She went into the kitchen to look for a knife and tourniquet, and came out with a meat cleaver and a long dishrag. As she approached the man, he glanced up at her and got a look of extreme fear on his face. He started to scoot away from her with his hands, but she caught up with him in no time.

"Stop squirming." Her voice was firm and professional. It actually seemed to calm the man. She tied the dishrag around his leg, as far down as she could make it, and the squirting ceased. As she raised the meat cleaver up and brought it down, the piece of flesh she was aiming for moved out of the way, replaced with the near dismembered calve. The man let out a squeak of shock and fright, which she really couldn't blame him for. "I told you, stop squirming. You might actually be able to salvage that leg, if you don't make me hit it again."

"Why…" He took a few labored breaths. "aren't you killing me?" She glared at him.

"Because that isn't my decision to make. Just because you look for the easy way out, doesn't mean you should hold everyone else in the same regard." And, on top of that, she knew that they could drain him of information.

After she had successfully amputated his leg, she placed the stump next its owner and went over to an empty chair to sit down. The reality of Olivier's death struck her a second time, but she pushed it to the back of her mind once again and waited for reinforcements to arrive at the scene

* * *

"Which is why, General Martel, I would suggest that you start moving your forces into their positions at this point." Martel looked at the man prattling on in front of him with a vague sense of disinterest. The man disgusted him. The only reason Martel wasted his time Heat in the first place was because he was willing to get his hands dirty when no one else would. Martel would do it himself, but the last thing he wanted was something directly linking him to the little acts of terrorism that Heat had cooked up. If Heat thought that Martel would actually allow him in his senior command when the war broke out then he was seriously mistaken.

Seeing as he did, it would make cutting him down from his feet all the more satisfying.

"I will not move my men until the council gives permission for me to do so, Brigadier General. We wouldn't want to be too presumptuous."

"Of course. I meant no insult to your honor, General, but I just assumed…"

"Assume nothing. Assumption leads to overconfidence, overconfidence leads to disaster." Heat was overconfident. War, the war that he wanted, had no place for folly.

When Heat had approached him with this "opportunity for glory", Martel had laughed in his face, but the idea had stuck around in his mind. Not the glory; Martel had all the glory he could fit on his chest. But the idea of a war, so close to the disastrous downfall their Government had experienced, kept making more and more sense. The people had lost all confidence in their country, and rebuilding Amestris was a task that seemed as if it would never occur. Within Central daily life hadn't been affected too much, but he knew that it was a false sense of security.

No one could say that they had pride in their country. He planned on changing that. A war, one that was "not their fault", could be the perfect solution to their problem. After more and more thought went into the idea, Martel could definitively say that an "honorable" war would not only fill the people with a sense stark nationalism, but also stimulate the economic structure of the country. It would lead to a golden era for his country, with such prosper that the world had never seen.

If they could win. Once he had accepted the benefits of such a war, the next major road block reared its head. All of the nationalism, all the good that would come from his war would be nullified if they did not emerge victorious. The odds weren't stacked in their favor, either. Drachma's Military was massive, and toned in the harsh conditions of its land. He knew his men, and he had confidence on their superiority over the DRM, but the ASM will still reorganizing. On top of that, a sizable chunk of its General Staff all near all of High Command had been lined up and shot on the accusation of High Treason.

It was then that he met Dr. Albert Manhattan, SA. Known as The Gold Alchemist, Manhattan had the ability to rearrange substances on a sub-atomic level. An engineer of his, Captain Paul Enola, had told him that he could use Manhattan to create somewhat of a "God weapon". Martel didn't know how it would work, all he knew that involved "tritium". He was no scientist, but he knew that it might just be his ace in the hole.

"The negations of troop placement will be over by the end of the week, General. I will not fail you," Martel heard Heat say as he snapped out of his personal revere.

"Excellent Brigadier General. You are dismissed. The salute Heat gave him was not up to the standard that he expected from his the Privates under his command, and to see it come from a General contributed to the disrespect that Martel saw him with. Martel's salute was perfect.

* * *

Riza looked through the glass window of the interrogation room. The assassin, she had learned, was known as Peter Stephanovich. It was interesting to see their man at work; she had thought that he would have started out with threats and mild forms of torture (being unseen by the press had its advantages when it came to prisoner's rights), but instead he was being friendly. Peter spilled like a leaky faucet.

He had announced, almost proudly, that he had been sent to kill Riza Hawkeye, and Riza felt her heart sink to her stomach. Roy was right beside her, listening as she was, and when he heard that, he placed his arms around her and pulled her to his chest. They were out in the open, but Riza let the display of affection go without rebuke or withdrawal. She had just seen her comrade die in front of her eyes while she sat there incapable of reacting, and when she was completely honest with herself she was shaken to the soul.

"Riza," he started. "We need to have a debriefing, and I need my main cabinet. Fuery will be back shortly, but I need you to go get Kellogg."

"Why isn't he here?"

"I gave him the rest of the day off on paid vacation. He just got out of the hospital, so…" She knew why he was sending her. Felix lived in the E-9 housing district, which had a reputation for being the most secure location in the city, other than the Fuhrer's mansion. Perhaps even more than the Fuhrer's Mansion; E-9s didn't get singled out as political targets.

She didn't relish telling Felix about Armstrong. While she didn't quite understand the relationship between them, she knew that it wasn't to be taken at face value.

Standing in front of the house with the proper address, she made her way up to the door and knocked. When no answer came after the third round, she cautiously unlocked the door and made her way in. A muffled scream of pain echoed through the halls and she immediately became alert. Was it the same people that killed Olivier? The idea of Felix being tortured by the inadequate terrorists seemed ridiculous, but nothing would have taken her by surprise today. She withdrew the Browning High Power that she had taken, and clung to a wall.

Every once in a while another scream was elicited, giving Riza a fix on its location. The house was not well lit, and there were no guards posted, giving Riza a clean shot to the door that Felix was behind. Pressing against the door, she gave the knob a slight turn to see if it was locked. Satisfied that it was not, she took a deep breath and swung the door open, pointing her pistol downrange. What she saw shocked her.

Two naked men turned to her, and starred her straight in the face. A moment of silence passed between them before the bigger man with brown hair spoke up.

"Who the hell are you?" Her gun sagged and she continued to stare at the two oddly, and the blond man spoke.

"Harry, get the fuck out."

"My name is Horton-"

"Get. The fuck. Out." The brown haired man grabbed his cloths to shield himself and hurriedly left the room, leaving the two blonds alone. The blond man's voice and face identified him as Felix, along with his size and build. She could see an assortment of marks and scars decorating his nude form, but there was a concentration of scarred slashes on both of his forearms, both vertical and horizontal. Those, however, hardly fazed her after she had seen him with his bed partner. "This is what happens when I drink too much," he sighed. "Could you give some privacy?"

It took Felix about five minutes to join Riza after she had left him to get dressed. He wore a long sleeve red button up shirt with khaki slacks. The disheveled state of the clothing hinted that it wasn't in its freshest state, probably loosely discarded before… he and "Horton" did whatever they did.

"So," he started. "Your wondering what happened in there." He said it mater o' factly, as one would declare that he had decided to buy a car.

"The thought occurred to me, but I won't nose around into your business." What he did in with his life wasn't really of any concern to her, though she _was_ curious.

"Normally I can withhold myself," Felix started to explain. "But after a few drinks my restraint goes to shit. Three drinks and I'm a college frat girl."

"What happened to your 'I hate fags' mindset?" Felix smiled his joyless smile and thumbed the table.

"Call me a hypocrite, I don't really care. Hell, I am a fucking hypocrite. It doesn't change my outlook." he image of the slashes on his arms flashed in her mind.

"And that's why…" She motioned toward his covered wounds.

"I spend half of my nights cutting my wrists? I have a gun waiting by my nightstand? Perhaps. The world would be a better place without me in it." She could see the weight of his 'sins' weighing down upon him. For the first time she realized that Felix genuinely tried to be a _good person_, but ultimately, in his own eyes, he fell short. She remembered him talking about his masochism, and how 'the wires just didn't connect just right.' This was probably the same thing- the wires didn't connect just right. He hated homosexuals, but he wasn't a hypocrite; he hated himself just as much as anyone else. "But, the thing about suicide, Ishvalla wouldn't exactly welcome me with open arms.

"Olivier tries to help me with it. She knows what I want. We had sex once, though I would hardly call it 'making love.'" He gave a small chuckle in spite of himself. "I remember seeing her, and thinking 'here's a woman who could stop a man in his tracks, who has these huge-ass perfect breasts, and I can't even get a hard-on for her.' So she appealed to my attraction to violence, to pain, and it landed her in the hospital." At his mention of Olivier she remembered what she was doing here, and cursed herself for forgetting.

"Kellogg, Olivier's dead." He starred at her for a second and then laughed.

"No she's not." She didn't respond, instead looking him dead on. After a few seconds he began to understand that she wasn't joking. "No. She's not." His voice wasn't as sure this time. He was confused, the notion of her death almost didn't make sense to him. She met his eyes once again and saw a broken man. "She can't be. She promised me." He was begging at this point. She hadn't realized how much emotion he had invested in Olivier.

He stood up and took a few deep breaths. In a brief fit of rage, Felix turned to the wall and punched it relentlessly. After three hits the plaster gave way, leaving a gaping hole. He stood there for a second longer, fist still through the wall.

"She promised me, the night I killed my father. She promised me that she wouldn't die on me."

They both heard a soft purr and turned down to see Pride, looking up at his master. Not master, Riza reminded herself, friend. Felix bent down after a few seconds and took the cat into his arms. Riza could swear that she could see him tearing.

"How?" he asked, simply.

"She was shot in the back of the head." He nodded his head carefully and continued to stroke his cat. "The General wants you down in HQ for a briefing, but if you aren't up to it, then-"

"I'll go," he interrupted. "I shouldn't be left alone today." He spoke as if from past experience.

* * *

"Start from the beginning, Lieutenant." Fuery was in the corner, having gotten back from planting his bugs around Heat's office, and was operating the recording equipment that was necessary to archive their debriefing. As such, Roy wasn't going to break office conduct. That conversation would have to wait for later.

Riza retold the facts of the incident with emotionless precision. Having already observed the interrogation, however, Roy knew that she left out the bit about Stephanovich asking for her specifically before executing who he thought was her. Somehow that didn't surprise Roy, but he wished that she would be honest with him, whether that caused him worry or not. They went over the typical stress recollection and the other ins and outs of the task before he gave Fuery the order to leave the room.

As soon as the door was closed Roy grabbed Riza in a protective hug. He stroked her hair and let Riza drain her emotion into him. He could feel her shake gently from the stress of the day, and he could empathize. He also knew that the day wasn't going to go much better for her, and he almost didn't have the willpower to do what he knew he needed to do.

But she couldn't stay here. I t was bad enough when her life was placed in dangers way here and there, but now that she was being targeted he couldn't allow it.

"Riza, I'm having you declared dead," he said after releasing her. He could hear her perk up at the statement, and he had a feeling she wasn't going to let go easily.

Riza wished that she couldn't believe her ears. She had seen this coming, but she thought that he would at least wait a little while to break the news to her. Looked like she was wrong. But maybe he would stop there. Maybe a declaration of death would be enough to satisfy Roy's need to protect her.

"I'm also putting you in charge of the Northern ROSE Division. Congratulations, Lt. Colonel Hawkeye." Once again, she wasn't surprised.

"I suppose that there really isn't anything I can say to make you change your mind." He shook his head with a sad smile. She could give one last stand, but at this point she doubted it would work. "I'm not a long distance girl, Roy Mustang. If you go through with this, we're over."

"I understand that, Lieutenant. I'm willing to make the sacrifice." The quickness in which he had accepted his fate both irritated her and damaged her ego. While she wished she had been able to put more passion into her fight, she knew now that it was a lost cause. She really just wanted to go home and fall asleep in her lover's arms. Of course, she had now officially barred herself of from that privilege, so not even that comfort would come to her.

* * *

Ed watched as the chunk of lead turned into a bar of smooth gold. He took it from the man and ran his finger over it.

"Nice trick. I can do it too, smart ass." The man laughed softly. Perhaps this man used to be his brother. He certainly looked like him. But, in spirit, he was not. His presence felt… different. He was Alphonse in body, but his mind was someone no longer the one he knew. He was Alfred Manhattan.

"Change it back then." Ed clapped his hands together and tried to tear apart the molecules of the gold colored lead. The trick he was referring to was the old one in the book. The idea that alchemists could actually create gold from led was ridiculous. The law of conservation of mass didn't allow it because lead and gold were two separate elements. There was, however, a way to make lead appear as gold, in a way that the naked eye wouldn't be able to detect. All he had to do was reconstruct the original balance of atoms, and the lead would return to its slate colored state.

When Ed tried to break down the material, however, nothing happened. Manhattan smirked and Ed turned a shade of red in embarrassment. "You can rearrange it because you're trying to move lead particles. Try moving the gold in it." Feeling like a fool, Ed did what he said. It worked.

"You cheated. It was gold the whole time." There was no way that he could do what he was claiming to do. I just wasn't possible. Manhattan took the chunk of gold from Ed and pulled out a different leaf of paper. Energy sparked around the piece of metal, and its consistency changed back to that of lead. "Now try." Much to his irritation, if not amazement, he was able to tell that it was, in fact lead.

"No fucking way." If the philosopher's stone was a force multiplier, then this new kind of alchemy was something else entirely. To be able to change things on an atomic level… That wasn't something to be toyed with.

A soldier came for Manhattan, and he checked his watch. Claiming that he was nearly late, he hurriedly left with his escort, leaving Ed standing there in thought. He wanted to know how he had done that, but first he had to talk to Mustang. While traveling around Xing, he had begun to learn the sacred art of alchestry. He had performed upon small injuries, both on his own body and on others, and had stated to research the act of restoring nerve connection to the brain. While he was no master yet, he doubted it would take him long to have the practice down.

Though he didn't want to admit it to himself, he couldn't wait to see Mustangs face when he told him that he had found a way to renew his vision.

**End of Act Two**

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* * *

  
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**Press me!!!**


	16. Movement in the Amestrian Encampment

**Holy crap, Notorious B.I.G. is sooooo amazing. It sucks that he got killed. Honestly, the more I listen to Gangsta rap ("Gangsta rap" is a technical term), the more that I realize that my assumption that all of it was terrible is more and more wrong.**

**OK, so I realize that this is pretty late. My bad. Actually, my compy's bad. My laptop just got back into useable condition (my power cord went to crap), so I'm just now getting back to this after a week hiatus, so I hope that the writing doesn't suffer from it. Actually, I didn't realize how much I need this for my day to go well. My week was kind of crappy. Call of Duty 6 really isn't that much fun after a couple days of playing. Yet I can't stop. Someone, please help… me…**

Diplomacy is the art of saying "Nice Doggie!" till you can find a rock.  
-Wynn Catlin

"Diplomatic relations, my ass," Roy muttered underneath his breath as he stormed down the halls of Central HQ. He could hear the voice of his Lieutenant politely apologizing to the men he nearly plowed through in his blind march, but he was too irritated to mend his rage. He had known that the council would side with Heat on the decision to place troops on Status: BRAVO, but it didn't do anything to soothe his mind. Perhaps, if he would have been in the position that they were in, he would have ruled in a similar manner, but he knew that Heat was pushing his personal agenda. He wished he could denounce him and have him court marshaled, but would be to no effect. There was someone behind this, and pushing Heat out of the way would muddy up the situation even further.

"Sir, BRAVO doesn't guarantee action. Drachma doesn't want to risk another attack after losing the 4th Armored Corps in Briggs. Perhaps a peaceful resolution can be found?" What Lancaster said could be trusted; he had handpicked her specifically based on her knowledge of Drachmann politics. She had lived in the Amestrian Embassy for the better part of her life, and could pass as a native if she desired. It wasn't because her voice sounded somewhat similar to his old Lieutenant. It wasn't a desperate attempt to make Riza jealous.

"Neither are we, Lieutenant, but will that stop us? It only takes one unsteady hand for shots to ring out, and when the smoke clears nobody really cares which side fired." He needed to call Hawkeye. Despite what she thought, transferring her to Briggs wasn't just an effort to save her from the assassin's bullet. He had considered it a tactical decision. Her death clearly had the desired effect for Heat; it pushed the council just over the brink of tolerance, and while it didn't result in action, it placed tension levels to a point where he could easily break them. Roy didn't have a doubt in his mind that by the end of the week it would come to that. With Riza and her newly formed team in the red zone, he could at least have reliable Intel, though preventive measures would be more than he could ask for.

He had learned long ago that he couldn't trust anyone outside of his closest circle. While he didn't believe that this plot ran as deep as the one he had a part in toppling not six months ago, he wasn't about to make the same mistakes that he had before.

* * *

Serge Gurko starred at the private who was running at him with measured speed, a pair of binoculars swinging around wildly. "Sarge!" he called out urgently. "You need to see this!" By the time he arrived next to him, he was out of breath. The thin air of the high mountains where they were out posted tended to cut down on the vitality of their soldiers. While five year men, like himself, were more than used to it, the recruits tended to take some time to adjust.

"What is it, Private?" The boy handed him the binoculars while still doubled over in labored breaths.

"To the south, sir." A couple of huffs. "There's movement in the Amestrian lines." Serge brought the scopes to his eyes and looked to the area that the Private was pointing to. While he had expected the problem to consist of the day to day shuffle that went on, it was clear to him that this was nothing to be taken lightly once he saw it.

"Have you shown this to the Sergeant Major?" The Private shook his head. That was somewhat of a relief. Their Sar-Major preferred not to deal with anyone but the NCOs of the company, and if the Private had gone directly to him with it, he would have been likely to discount it. "Just as well. Good work, Private. You are dismissed." He watched the boy trudge back to the camp, but not without a slight spring in his step. Serge knew how respected he was among his men, and even the lightest praise would put his men in a good mental state.

The Sergeant contemplated the situation and took another look at the Amestrian lines. While it wasn't unlikely that it was a simple drill, it also may not have been. Above that, the soldiers weren't the typical Biggs soldiers that held the mountain fortress not sixty miles from their location, but rather the elite shock troops of the Presidential Guard. Why were they there? He understood the assault model of the Amestrian Military, and while its core rested in its army, it was the Guard that stuck deep and fast. The undesirable explanation for their being there was that they were preparing for something. Of course, that wasn't the only possibility. In all likelihood, they were there to escort high ranking officials, either councilmen or members of their High Command.

Whatever the cause, he needed to tell the Command Sergeant Major. From there battalion would decide what to do with situation, and he probably would not be involved. Probably. Trudging up to Battalion HQ, a shabby set of tents and gazebos, Serge found the Command Sergeant Major standing alongside the CO, Colonel Petrov. He gave a nod, rather than a salute, to his higher ups, not being naive enough to raise his hand to his head.

"Staff Sergeant," his senior acknowledged.

"Sergeant Major. Colonel." The Colonel grunted in acknowledgement. "Sirs, there's activity in the Amestrian lines. I believe they may be prepping for attack." Colonel Petrov swore and quickly moved to the lookout point, about ten meters away. They two NCOs here a loud swear come from the Colonel through the frigid air, and quickly went up to join him.

"Volgin, what's your take on this?" The Sergeant Major took the set of large binoculars form Petrov and looked across the landscape to the enemy encampment. Scanning the scene in front of him, CSM Volgin mentally evaluated the troop movements.

"Could be a drill, but I doubt it's an assault." The Staff Sergeant looked at him questioningly. He had come to the same conclusion, but he hadn't ruled out the possibility of it being preparation for an assault. "Amestris is still undergoing reorganization in their high command. There government is weak, and there economy is in shambles. They are in no position to strike us." The CSM was speaking from experience and logic, but all three of them knew that there was still the possibility of them being caught with their pants down if they didn't prepare for the worst.

"Volgin, I'm going to send an envoy down to them to demand their intentions. Pick whomever you'd like to accompany them." The Colonel turned and walked back to Battalion HQ, leaving The Command Sergeant Major alone with Serge.

* * *

Riza watched the marked GAZ jeeps speed toward the Amestrian encampment with her naked eye. She could make out what looked like a triangle on the lead jeep's flags but, from the distance she was at, even her hawk eyes couldn't quite make them out. She patted the shoulder of the man on the scoped kar98 to get his attention.

"Colonel?"

"What's the rank insignia on that GAZ?" Hathcock aimed the barrel to the moving car, and read the flag.

"There's three stars, two on bottom, one on top. I don't have a fucking clue as to what it means, though," the Specialist said through the white mask of his winter ghillie suit. Riza didn't either, but she had a good idea of who did. Slowly and carefully, she ducked underneath the snow bank to access the frost proof State Issue radio that they kept in their perch. Picking up the receiver, the operator buzzed in her ear amongst a wall of static.

"Comm Chief, this is Queen." It felt slightly awkward to be talking to "Comm Chief" and knowing that it wasn't Fuery that she was addressing, but it was really just a matter of getting used to. "Link me in with Command Two." Felix was in a position much closer to the Drachmann temporary outpost, along with a translator, to observe and report. The translator would know what rank the markings signified, and from that Felix could probably determine who was in the jeep. The Comm Chief gave a quick "yessir" after a second or two the static was doubled, hinting at the shaky connection of both their Comsats.

"Command Two, I need the name, rank, and rank insignia of the CO for the outpost." There was about ten seconds of silence before Felix came up with the response.

"His name is Colonel Igor Petrov. He wears three stars on his shoulder, in a pyramid shape." So it was the Commanding Officer that was driving to meet with the ARPG. Probably wondering why the hell they were organizing a strike raid. Judging by the extra jeeps, they had brought a squad or two as armored escort.

"This is fucked up, Colonel. One wrong move and the shit'll hit the fan." Specialist Hathcock's colorful vocabulary never ceased to amuse Riza. Remembering back to Ishbal, he had cleaned up his tongue somewhat ("Holy Fuck! Those bitch ass towel-backs are kicking the shit out of the bastards of our 7th infantry! I thought we were supposed to be the goddamned professionals…"), but he still swore worse than a stable boy on Monday morning. Grabbing her spotter scope, she belly crawled back of the slope of snow to get a good look at the speeding transports. The high powered double eyed spotter scope gave her detailed information, from small details, to depth perception to judge distance accurately.

"The jeeps are about a kilometer away. Can you hit that, Charlie?" If they could give the care a "flat tire", then it would buy them time without looking too suspicious. Normally aiming for a target half a meter high, with a suppressed rifle, would have been a Hail Mary. Hathcock, however, was a _very_ good shot.

"The jeep, I can hit. A passenger… well, that'd be one in a million."

"What about the tire? You can't hit anyone, otherwise this operation is-"

"Fucked? Got it." He took aim, mentally making the calculations in his head. He swore under his breath and pulled the rifle away from the target. "Unpredictable wind at a thousand meters. The gun's cold and clean. Too much can go wrong." Riza understood. Even if she had thought to fire a couple rounds to dirty the barrel, as Hathcock preferred, there were still too many variables. Far too much risk, especially for such an unimportant venture.

She would have to rely on Falman now, who was tactically buried in the ranks of the Presidential guard. They needed eyes on the inside, and Falman, who had served under Buccanier in Briggs, was fairly experienced in winter survival conditions. He had been placed as Quarter Master under Sherman himself, and as such was able to give her a steady stream of Intel derived from the ins and outs of the equipment.

Other than Felix, Hathcock, and Falman, Riza had to build her team for the ground up. Being located in Briggs had its advantages and despite having started with three underlings, she now had an officer staff of two Lieutenants and a Chief Warrant Officer, and a team of enlisted that was thirteen strong. She had taken Master Gunnery Sergeant Kellogg as her Second in Command, but despite being offered a promotion to Major, he declined, saying that he preferred taking orders, rather than giving them.

The title of "Colonel Hawkeye" still sounded odd to her ears, but being called Lt. General Armstrong was even more of a trip. She was letting her hair grow out a little more so that it would more easily pass off as the deceased General's, but even now she could get it pretty close. On occasions like this, where there was no risk of being seen by someone outside of her team, she preferred to wear it in her clip. It was much easier to look through a scope when her locks weren't getting in the way.

"Command, this is Enlisted One." Leo Millitt was as crazy as he was fearless. Having been court-martialed and demoted to Corporal for punching his XO in the face during a drunken rage, Riza had found him in the Briggs holding cell, ranting to the guards about how he had done the guy a favor. After reading through his file, Riza had promised him a promotion back to his previous rank as Gunnery Sergeant, so long as he signed his life and loyalty away to her, and Ultimately General Mustang. Before eagerly signing the papers, more due to the promise of field work, rather than rank, he made the off handed comment that "The real General Armstrong had been taller." After seeing how quickly he naturally took charge of his comrades, Felix, had opted to assign him the position of Enlisted One.

"I read you, Echo."

"I have multiple motorized transports entering coming into the camp. Can you advise?"

"Copy, Enlisted One, that's the Colonel of the RDM outpost, about ten klicks from the ARPG camp. Can you patch through the audio?"

"Affirmative, Command."

* * *

"I'm assuming you're Colonel Petrov?" As the man stepped through the tent flap, Serge subconsciously tightened his grip on the PPsh submachine gun that he was holding. The man, who he assumed was at least in his late fifties, was walking in front of three more older men, all of them surrounded with an escort that extended beyond the entrance of the command tent. The lead man, who had two silver stars on his shoulder, calmly walked up to Petrov and offered his hand in a friendly manner. His Colonel and the Amestrian shook, and the Amestrian introduced himself.

I am Major General Sherman. Ah, where are my manners? Please, have a seat." The General gestured with his arm, and one of Petrov's personal aides translated the words. Serge had grown up in an area of Drachma that was heavily populated with Amestrians, and as such was fairly proficient in the language. He could understand perfectly, but he hadn't been active in the language enough to speak fluidly. The two officers exchanged pleasantries for no more than a minute before getting down to business.

"The bottom line is that we need to defend ourselves." Serge took this as them declaring that they were not undergoing a drill. While the relations between the two countries had never been friendly, this would heat things up. Perhaps even to the point of combustion.

"General Sherman, I assure you that I have no intentions of hostile actions. Neither of us want this to break into something out of control."

"Of course not. Needless war would be exactly that. I want peace as much as you do, Colonel, and you have my promise that I will not strike unless stricken." As the translator repeated what was said to Petrov, the Colonel smiled and nodded.

"You have my promise that I will stay my hand. We are merely keeper's of the peace." After hearing the relayed words, the General nodded his head assuredly and dismissed Colonel Petrov along with Serge and the escort that he led. "Oh, and one more thing." Petrov turned to look at him just as he was exiting the tent. "While I have no intention of starting anything… unnecessary, I can make one promise to you." His face turned stony and ominous on a dime. "If you provoke me, I will kill you all without mercy. I will cut through the landscape of your country and burn everything in my way, until I reach the thrown your Czar sits upon. And then, I will tear him from his palace and make him bow to me." The seriousness of his tone send a chilling air through the Serge and his fellow countrymen. The General then waved his hand in dismissal, and the Amestarian guards surrounding them walked them out of the tent and back to their jeeps.

**On that happy note…**

**So I realize that this is seems like another introduction. Well, yes, it is. Hence "Act III". I also realize that you may thing that I may have gone a *little* too overboard with the OCs. Well, to be honest, I wouldn't worry about it too much. I'm planning on using Serge a fair amount, but everyone else will very much be a supporting role, AND THAT'S IT. Anyway, not enough time is left in this for any serious character development.**

**(A side not on Military issues: I have little to no clue as to the ins and out of the Russian Military. So, I mostly based the Drachmann Military (RDM) on the American military, because I know that. So, and this is mostly to the Russian that reads this (yes, I do check in with my reader traffic), I apologize for any mistake I accidentally made, and any errors that I made on purpose.)**


	17. The Distant Sound of Feild Artillary

**Hi everyone. Walrus here, with another update. But first, a song! (durr durr I wote dis mysdelf, durr hurr).**

**Spring time is near, la de da de da**

**The birds and bees and here and there, la de da de da**

**My cat's in heat, and disappears for hours at a time, la de da de da.**

**The pollen's in the air, la de da de da.**

**I can't breathe because the pollen is fucking up my sinuses, and I always have to haul a billion tissues around with me, and I hate this season sooo much I want winter back, or even summer, fall is good compared to this…**

**la de da de da**

**Ta da! Clearly, I'm an amazing poet.**

"My rule is: If you meet the weakest vessel, attack; if it is a vessel equal to yours, attack; and if it is stronger than yours, also attack…"  
- **Admiral Stepan O. Makarov**

Serge rubbed the stamp on the envelope and placed it into the Amestrian post box. The State Postal System was something that he could respect more than his own country's counterpart; once over the mountains of Briggs, the geography of the circular nation allowed for quick and reliable transportation. Amestris didn't lay claim to the frozen wastelands that made the Royal Drachmann Carrier Service so unreliable.

Longingly, the Sergeant thought of the women that the letter was addressed to. The image of her auburn hair cascading down her freckled bare chest was burned into his mind, and he had no desire to erase it. It had been far too long since he had seen her last, and this past week had been a living hell for him. With the constant threat of the Guard division that was on their doorstep, and the whole of the Amestrian State Army that sat right behind them, the idea of war breaking out was sounding more reasonable by the day.

He hadn't given much thought when Sophie had been commissioned into the Amestrian State Army, but now he was half considering deserting to be with her. It was out of the question, but the thought that she might be the one that he was shooting at would break him. The only reassurance he had was that the tension had not been shattered, and it was entirely likely that it never would. His head could believe that, but his heart wouldn't listen to it. _All's fair in love and war._ Did that really apply when the two were the same?

"Hey, Sarge! We need to get back to base. Spending this much time across border is dangerous at the best of times." _And these are certainly not the best of times._ Serge looked around him at the few civilians in the building. This close to a Drachmann outpost, the citizens of both countries never paid much attention to the occasional foreign soldier. They just pushed them out of sight and out of mind, despite the large automatic rifles they had strapped to their backs.

After giving a nod to the Corporal that was accompanying him, the two of them left to get into the jeep they had borrowed from base and drove back to the outpost. When they got back to their camp, the smell of baked beans flooded his senses. He had grown tired of the food years ago, but at this point they didn't taste. That didn't stop him from joining in on the bitching contest, however.

"You know, comrade, I'm starting to doubt your story of going to the post office every week." Taking a seat on a rock around the fire, Serge grabbed a bowl of food and looked at the man who was talking. "I think that you're really sneaking off to the enemy encampments to get the spaghetti that they serve on Tuesdays." A couple men laughed at the joke.

"If you keep talking like that, I'll start getting ideas, Private. These beans taste like shit." He shoveled some more spoonfuls of the slippery seeds into his mouth, gulping them down with routine precision.

"Just make sure you don't leave me out with me, the next time you make the trip, don't forget to take me." The mindless chatter went on throughout the meal until the Lieutenant of the platoon came by to check on his men.

"Lieutenant!" A Sergeant from another squad called out to him. He stood at attention, but kept his arm firmly to his side. "Sir, do you have the guard patrols for the rest of the month? My men-" The Sergeant was cut off by a volley of sharp blasts originating near their position. The whole camp was silent for a moment before it registered. After the moment of silence, murmurings broke out and the platoon Lieutenant started to stoke his beard.

"That's the sound of our Field Artillery. Why are we…" The skin on his face turned pale and he promptly left in the direction of the noise.

* * *

Chief Warrant Officer Falman was drinking his afternoon tea, a ceremony he had kept regular since his early thirties, when the distant sound of thunder perked his ears. Pondering the sound, he brought his cup up to his mouth to take another sip from it when a sharp crack sounded around his tent, the sound shocking him speechless. Similar blasts could be heard throughout the camp. _Artillery shot?_ He went to place his tea cup down, when he realized the only part he was holding was the handle. He felt his arms turned to gooseflesh when it dawned upon him that a piece of shrapnel had narrowly missed his head, taking the china cup instead.

Running out of his tent, he found himself in the chaos of the soldiers. He needed to get to the quartering office to make sure everything was accounted for, and to keep away any potential looters. He shouldered his way through the crowd and dodged a man who tripped and fell forcefully. By the time he got to his post, he could hear their own artillery start to return fire, drowning out any other sound. The doors to this office were still locked, and the supply bunker was left unmarred by any the enemy cannon fire. He breathed a sigh of relief, and took cover on the ground.

"Cease Fire, damnit! I never gave the order to retaliate!" The sound of Major General Sherman's voice came booming from inside the adjacent tent, and Falman remembered that the supply bunker was located directly next to Battalion Headquarters. In hushed undertones, the words would be disguised and hidden, but Sherman was shouting over the deafening roar of field artillery, and he could be heard quite clearly from the other side of the tent. "I don't care that they fired first; they aren't firing _now_, and until I talk to their Colonel, we _will_ hold ourselves back!"

It was then that Falman realized that the reason why he couldn't hear the enemy artillery wasn't because theirs were drowning it out, but rather that it wasn't sounding at all. That was odd. Why would they open fire for half a minute, a minute at the most, before calling halt in the middle of a counter attack? Somewhere, a piece of the puzzle was missing. Lieutenant- no; Colonel Hawkeye might know. "Falman! Get your ass in here!" Vato looked in the direction of The HQ tent and saw the face of one of Sherman's Generals, waving him inside.

When the Warrant Officer walked into the tent he found himself surrounded by so many silver stars that he felt like he had stepped into an observatory. At the helm, and screaming into the field radio, was the voice he had heard through the thick canvas of the tent. Directly behind him were three more generals, looking over a map and pointing to different areas on it. One was a two star, and the other two were one star Brigadier Generals. Throughout the rest of the tent, there were two more single star Generals, and at least five full bird Colonels.

"Chief Warrant Officer Vato Falman" The Colonel that had called him into the tent addressed him informally, while writing something in his Military Issue notebook. Vato saluted him stiffly while making the note to himself that he wore the blue wool uniform of the ASA, rather than the Grays of the ARPG.

The Gray of the uniform originated from the very ground the stood on. About one hundred years after his countries formation, the first notable conflict had erupted between Amestris and Drachma, and the Amestrian Royal Presidential Guard was formed as the elite division of the ASM, in direct command under the Fuhrer President. Due to the mix of the snow white mountains, and the smoke of their muskets, they had opted for a simple slate jacket that didn't send the same flair as the ASA's elaborate blue coats. When the Uniforms had been streamlined and conformed, the color stayed, though the directives did not. While they were still directly under the president, their use was nearly non-existent during the Ishballan Extermination Campaign, despite having proven their exceptional combat expertise during The Third Cretean War. This was mostly due to Bradley's desire to test the strategic value of the State Alchemist program, which had been formed within the two decades leading up to the massive rebellion, but was deemed too young for use in their war with Cretea.

While it was not unheard of that an ASA Officer was within the ranks of an ARPG expeditionary force, it was still unusual to see. The relationship of the two branches of the State Military typically ranged from friendly completion to an almost bitter rivalry.

All facts aside, Vato couldn't say that he wasn't relieved to be dealing with the Familiar Blue uniform once again. Guardsmen had a certain arrogance to them that beat out even the troops of Briggs that he had once been somewhat accustomed to dealing with.

Finishing up what he was writing, the Colonel stood up and looked at him eye to eye. "You are the Division Quarter Master, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are all the supplies accounted for?" Vato nodded his head, and his superior breathed a sigh of relief. "Warrant Officer, I read your reports, and I'm lead to believe that we have you placed in the wrong position." He liked his position as it was, actually. Not much could go unexpected in the realm of a Quarter Master, save for the occasion thief that sifted through the ranks. If there was one thing that Vato didn't like, it being ignorant on a subject. If there was a second, it was unexpected change. "As your newly appointed position as my staff assistant, I need you to give me a write-up on the enemies offensive capabilities. I need everything from the tanks that they use, to the calories in their lunch time meal, and I need it in my hands before the week is over." Vato had an idea. He already needed a way to get back to Northern HQ, and this seemed like the best opportunity.

"Sir, I believe that I will require a written pass to clear the MP checkpoints." The Colonel bent down to his desk and tore out a piece of paper from his notebook, he wrote a quick note on it and signed it. He handed the leaf of paper to Vato and dismissed him, turning his attention elsewhere. After the conversation was over, the absence of the sound of artillery was registered by Vato. It was clear to him that somewhere, someone had made a mistake. On his way out of the tent, he could hear Major General Sherman declare angrily that he was going to meet with the Drachmann Commander. Vato got the suspicion that whatever they were going to discuss, it would not turn out well.

* * *

"Can you read me? I repeat: Kellogg, can you read me?" The radio continued to produce static, and the noise was starting to weigh down on Riza's nerves. She was leaning over the Comm Station, her arms supporting her weight, and overshadowing the Lance Corporal who normally ran the radio system that she was speaking into. After listening to the distant sound of cannon exchange for ten minutes until it halted abruptly, Riza needed to know what had happened. As the first shots had come from the Drachmann lines, it stood to reason that their own Amestrian lines were simply returning fire. She would get the report from Falman later, but the sooner she could get feedback from Felix, the better.

Assuming Felix survived the shellings. She was pretty sure he had, because, after all, this was Felix. She was pretty sure that a tank wouldn't be able to take him down. Then again, it would be a fitting death for him, to be smashed by 105 cannon shot…

"Damnit." She stood from her supported position, and walked out of the Radio Office. "Lieutenants!" The two holders of the rank lifted their heads from their reports and looked at her expectantly. "I need Central Command on the phone _now._" One of them jumped up immediately and went the office phone while she strode to her desk and fell down in her chair. One of the small luxuries that she had picked up from Roy; the chair, or throne, as the members of her staff had become accustomed to calling it, was a dark red recliner with large enough padding to make a sultan blush. It didn't rock, nor did it swivel, due to her desire for a solid surface, but she would have been lying if she said that she wasn't guilty of falling asleep in it at least once in the time that she had had it. As comfortable as it was, it didn't make doing the seemingly endless stacks of paperwork any easier.

That was one thing that had surprised her. When she was in Roy's office she had never minded filling out the forms. While most of them had not pertained to her, she knew that they all had a deadline and if she wasn't going to do them, they would probably never get done. Now that she was the owner of them, she saw them from a different light. With every paper that she signed, another three replaced them. Reports, financial records, transfer requests, self evaluations, team evaluations, promotion notifications, the list went on and on. With every new problem, a dozen new forms would be birthed. She found herself subconsciously making decisions to relieve herself of the paper work. She took longer lunch breaks, left the office exactly at quitting time, and took every excuse to avoid her desk.

Given the urgency of the situation, however, slacking off was the last thing on her mind. She took the status report for Kellogg and wrote a large "MIA" on the top of it, underlining it twice. After taking a few more notes, one of her Lieutenants approached her with the black telephone, his hand blocking any noise from seeping in. He placed the machine on her desk and handed her the receiver.

"Command's on the phone, Colonel." She nodded to him and took a deep breath, preparing herself for the impending conversation.

* * *

Roy waited impatiently for his old Lieutenant to pick up the phone. She was no Hughes; she wouldn't have called him unless it was something work related and important enough for him to have to get involved.

"This is… Mrs. Brulexa. How are you doing, Roy-boy?" It was nice to hear her voice again, even disguised as it was.

"This is a secure line, Lieutenant. You can give up the act." He could hear her tension being released over the other side of the line.

"Well then, sir, the least you could do is address me by my proper rank. Unless of course, you would like to resend my rank and take me back as your personal assistant…" Roy laughed into the phone and leaned back, placing his feet on the edge of his desk. If she wanted to play this game, he certainly didn't mind.

"I'm not sure if I want to do that, Lieutenant _Colonel_. The office has been a lot more relaxed since you left, and I haven't had nearly as much trouble ignoring my paperwork. Not to mention, I'm now able to prop my feet up on my desk without worrying about them being shot off." The humor in his voice had his trademark arrogance in it, and he was sure that she could hear his smirk through the phone.

"You could replace your shoes with my back." He nearly dropped the receiver at her words. His mind went wild with the mental imagery, and the memories of her screams echoed in his ears before he was able to tie his consciousness into submission. He needed to repair the direction of their conversation before Riza managed to throw him for another loop.

"I, uh, why did you call me for?" As the sentence tumbled out of his mouth, he smacked his hand against his forehead. Apparently she had the ability to prevent him from forming logical sentences, as well.

"What, your hand doesn't measure up to me? Perhaps you should-"

"_Lieutenant_."

"Right." She wore that tone in her voice that told him she had a smirk twice as big as the one he had been wearing earlier in the conversation. He was thankful that she wasn't calling just to flirt with him. "The frontlines have just finished exchanging fire for a good ten minutes."

"Ten minutes? Sounds like someone goofed up. Do you have any men on the frontlines?"

"That's what I was thinking. And, yes, Kellogg was observing Drachma from a close position, but either he has to maintain radio silence, or he's KIA. Whatever it is you just need to know- what?" Roy could hear the phone leave the immediate vicinity of Riza's face, and she said a few things that he couldn't quite make out. "Alright sir, Kellogg just came in through the comm. Give me a second." She left once again, this time for a few minutes. When she got back to the phone, she was clearly in a rush to wind up the call. "Kellogg said that the artillery was set off by mistake. I'll call back when I find out more."

"Wait, Hawkeye. WAIT!"

"…what, sir?"

"What's going on? Are the two Ranking Officers meeting? DO you have men on the inside?"

"Yes, sir. I'm in contact with Kellogg who's following them. I need to go NOW, sir."

"WAIT!" He heard a click from the other side of the line. "GodDAMNIT, Hawkeye!" He slammed the phone down on the silver hook, and briefly thought that if she had been there, she would have told him not to slam the phone.

* * *

Sherman shook the hand of Colonel Petrov and the both of them returned to their respective jeeps, and prepared to drive back to their respective camps. The meeting had gone as he had expected it to. Petrov had assured him that the Battery of Artillery had misfired, and the whole of the incident had been a big mistake. Having fully expected to hear this, Sherman simply shook the hand of the Colonel and thanked him for "clearing up the unfortunate circumstance." It was the shortest war conference that the old General had experienced in all of his grey hairs of existence, And Sherman was anything but satasied.

"What do you think of it, sir?" Sherman glanced behind him at the Drachmann outpost and considered the events. Sitting back in his seat, he responded solidly.

"We've spent the last four months taking it in the ass from these snow dwelling bastards. Every time, they've pointed the finger elsewhere, and declared that they had no hand in it. This is the last time I'll fall for it. They've prescribed war as the best solution, clearly. I plan on simply giving what they asked for." He had hoped that he could avoid this, but at this point he was left with no other decision. He turned to his Staff Officers as a whole.. "Prepare the men for Operation Fidelis. We execute at twenty three hundred hours."

**Don't know how happy I am with this. Please review, especially if it sucks. Even if it wasn't the best thing in the world, it all needed to happen, as I'm sure you can understand.**

**Incidentally, I was cracking Vietnam Veteran jokes today (really good ones, I might add), and I was told by one of my friends that I was one of the most disturbed person she knew. Either she should have realized that a long time ago, or she was over reacting, like, a lot. I'm still not sure which…**


	18. The Surgeon's Scalpal

**So, I was watching M*A*S*H (an extremely good show, the best even, though I'm sure your aware of that) and I can't help but wonder if Radar inspired Fuery. **

**I don't think near enough attention is given to The Writer's Best Friend; our cats. I love dogs and all, don't get me wrong, but I have the greatest cat in the world. I cannot count the number of time that I've had to delete whole paragraphs of just "podagjvefrivujnw-9eurvnw-eun" because Sheba, my wonderful feline, decided that it was time for me to stop typing and start paying attention to her. She'll just walk right over and plop down on my keyboard. And then, she'll act like it's a privilege to enjoy her company. Which it is. I love my cat. Incidentally, as I'm sure you can tell, I have a pretty short attention span. Yes, I did change my avatar again, and more than likely I'll change it soon again. How could I resist though? General Lee is too frickin' BA to pass up…**

For to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.  
-Sun Tzu

Edward read the summon in his hand for the third time. This couldn't be happening. Not now. He had always claimed that he knew this day would come, but it had been out of sight and out of mind. Why were they asking him? He didn't even like his country, much less want to fight for it. To kill for it. Weren't there other people they could ask, people who actually wanted to do this sort of thing?

_Run. _The more he rolled the thought around in his heat, the better it sounded. After all, he didn't really need his State license anymore. His skills could be better utilized to rebuild, rather than destroy. If he ran, then he wouldn't have to get himself into the mess of what was about to break out. Anyway, he wasn't even seventeen. Would they really blame him if he refused to fight? Would they really punish him?

Yes. Yes, they would. This wasn't any order, this was a war order. While he could normally turn in his State license in the same manner that an officer can resign his commission, in war time, with an order like the one he held in his hand, to do so would be desertion. He could be pressed against a wall and shot for it, and he didn't have the utmost confidence that he wouldn't be. That was the bottom line, and when it came down to it, it would defeat the purpose of running in the first place. Because, when he was completely honest with himself, he was afraid. Afraid of dying.

"You'll report to the New Optain Officer Training School." The MP casually scanned his clipboard, not paying much attention to teenager whom he was sending off to war. "You lucky. New Optain has the best Combat Alchemist program in the country."

"Can't say that I feel too lucky…" Ed rubbed the back of his neck with his steel arm. "I need to notify my CO, right?" The black uniformed man shook his head.

"Already done. Besides, we wouldn't want you running off on us." The man looked up from his clipboard and stared Ed straight in the eyes. "No, I can think of several Generals who would have my head if you didn't show up to your post. In fact, Major Armstrong is headed that way as well. Perhaps you two could-"

"I don't need an escort. I'll show up." Ed didn't want to deal with another member of the Armstrong family in his lifetime, and the Major was perhaps even higher on his avoid list than the Lt. General. "Waitaminute. You said New Optain? The summon is to East City Head Quarters."

"As a State Alchemist you need to check in with the Sector Commander before you head off to OTS. You'll need a signature from GEN Grumman before you can get on the train to New Optain." Ed nodded and the MP saluted him, reminding Ed of his rank of Major. He gave a slightly awkward salute back, and the man left Ed by himself. Taking out his pocket watch, Ed checked the time. He needed to be at the Station at twelve hundred hours, which gave him about five hours to get his stuff together and get out the door. _Damnit, _he thought. _Winry's gunna kill me. _He glanced up the staircase where he knew Winry to be residing. He wasn't sure if what he dreaded more; telling he he'd be off to war, or the act of going off to war itself.

* * *

Understandable, the radio was jammed. It would have almost been a disappointment if the Drachmans hadn't taken the precautions, but it was still worth checking; it wouldn't be the first time a commander had made a stupid decision on the battlefield. And this was a battlefield. The shots hadn't rang out, side for the accidental long gun volley that sounded earlier at noon, but it was clear to Felix that temporary peace would not last long.

Especially not with the Amestrian Guardsmen that were currently stealthing their way around the Drachmann encampment.

_The tide of the battle will can be determined by the precise use of small amounts of soldiers. The elite should be used by the Command as a surgeon uses a scalpel. Small, but decisive cuts make a loss into a victory. _The doctrine of his father flashed through his mind, as the scene in front of him unraveled. The use of small unit tactics was something that could only be found in the ARPG, and above that, almost exclusively by those who had been understudies of GEN AbdulMalik.

Or at least, that was how it had been before. Felix knew all of his father's students on a near personal level, and he knew that Major General Sherman was not one of them. General Martel, however, was. On top of that, Martel was his father's favorite pupil, and if he was running the show, then that would explain the unit of soldiers stalking the snow banks. Actually, it really didn't make a difference who was in charge, so much as what they were dong. Felix looked through the scope of his rifle to get a better view of the troops.

It total, there looked to be a platoon of soldiers, each dressed from head to toe in white, with white painted mp44 rifles. There was one per squad who was carrying a scoped rifle, also painted white. The further they went, the clearer their objective was; they were disabling the Drachmann artillery batteries. Felix grinned in respect for the ARPG General in charge. The job would be made easier by the Commanding Field Officer of the Drachmann out post, who had taken risky precautions to prevent an accidental attack like the one that had happened earlier that day. The Artillery was fenced up and no personnel were attending the guns. More than likely, it had stemmed from an order to prevent war at almost any cost, but that didn't change the stupidity of it.

Seeing the Guardsmen work made Felix's chest swell with pride. The group elegantly maneuvered around the area, and set themselves up according to a predetermined pattern. The point group silently cut the fence with a pair of wire cutters, making a hole big enough for about three people to file through, but small enough to be discreet. When the entrance was made, three of the four squads making up the platoon entered the artillery field, leaving the last squad to protect their rear and provide back up if needed. Inside the fence, the three squads filled through the ranks of the long guns, placing a sabotaging block of what was more than likely TNT on a crucial spot of the guns. One could see the unspoken communication of them as the seemingly moved as an organized mass.

Within minutes the soldiers were finished placing the explosives, and they all funneled through the fence once again, completely unseen and unnoticed. The blast chords were tied together and linked to one ignition box, and the platoon slowly but surely evacuated from the scene.

More than anything, Felix wished that he could be in their place, instead sitting silently on the sidelines, unable to participate in the orgy of chaos and bloodshed that was on the horizon._ Once a Guardsmen, always a Guardsmen._ His job was important, and he knew it, but if he didn't get in on any action by the end of this war, he would likely go insane.

The move made my Sherman would no doubt prove to be nothing less of brilliant. With the entirety of the Drachmann artillery pieces out of commission, the outpost would fall with barely any fight. The Amestian guns would pound the Drachmanns until there was barely anything left, and then roll the tanks in. That one platoon of soldiers would save more Amestrian lives with their singular action than they could possibly count. Through his scope, Felix could see the leader of the platoon signal to the man holding the ignition box.

_Boom._

With the roar of TNT, the Drachmann camp was thrown into disarray for the second time that day. The ARPG soldiers were now in a dead sprint to get away from the encampment, but they were hidden away from the Drachmann eyes by a white hill. Before a minute passed, the Amestrian guns stated to ring and the impacts of the shells could be seen in other counties position. A grin found its way across Felix's face as he watched his predictions unfold before him. It reminded him of the motion pictures they would show on base during down time.

* * *

The only thing that passed through the mind of Sgt Serge Gurko was that his life had just been saved by his overactive bladder. The latrines having been full, Serge was forced to resort to a bush on the outskirts of camp, and his location had been far enough away so as not to have been effected by the enemy artillery showers. While it pained him to see his comrades getting hammered like they were, charging in would be beyond idiodic, unless he was feeling suicidal. No, Serge was perfectly content with going back into the fight _after_ the hail of death was over.

* * *

"I have to admit, I'm impressed." Sherman took a long drag of his fat cigar as he surveyed the battlefield with his subordinate Generals.

"That's why I'm in charge, and you aren't." Mild chuckles could be heard throughout the staff. "Pay attention to this, all of you. Soon we'll be cutting through the Drachmann countryside, and I want minimal losses." Sherman knew that this was basically a gift, and that he couldn't expect every other battle to go as smoothly as this was. Although, if he could have a decisive victory, now was certainly the ideal time for it to happen. This would give his troops much needed momentum, and if they could keep it up, the road to Fredricksburg would go that much smoother.

"Sir, my tanks are waiting for the command to strike. When shall I give the order?" Sherman looked at the enemy encampment once again through his binoculars and analyzed the situation. By the looks of things, the shelling had reached its usefulness, and beyond this point the enemy was too dug into for it to have the desired effect. It was time to send in the boots on the ground.

"Start moving in right away. Colonel Leon!"

"Yes, sir?" Sherman turned to the artillery commander.

"Our ground troops are moving in. Cease and desist." The Colonel gave a quick salute and a yes sir before heading back to his post.

In the span of fifteen minutes, Sherman's tank divisions were on their way toward the enemy encampment. There was speculation that the enemy might not have any anti-tank weaponry in their arsenal, and if that was the case, then they would no doubt surrender without a fight. While he was at odds as to whether taking POWs would be cost effective, but Martel had made it very clear that he wanted a clean war.

* * *

After regrouping with his fellow soldiers, Serge soon realized that their effort was hopeless. Their army was in total disarray. Colonel Petrov was dead, along with a good amount of Battalion Command. There wasn't a Command Sergeant Major to be found, and the highest ranking NCO he saw was a Gunnery Sergeant. The relentless pounding of the Amestrians had taken its toll, and there was barely anyone left to hold onto their position.

More than that, the Amestians were sending in what looked to be an entire division of Tanks, and, for what Serge saw, it seemed like the enemy had more armor than they themselves had foot soldiers. He had half a mind to run for the hills, but to do so would be abandoning his comrades, and he wouldn't allow himself to do that. He had more honor than to stoop to that level.

So they boldly grouped together and raised a white flag. There would be no negotiations, as they had nothing to bargain with.

As the Amestian armor drove in on their position they found themselves circled by walls of steel. Their ranking officer, a Captain, walked to the meet the tanks. Serge could see some sort of conversation going on until their Captain relinquished his Officer's Sidearm over to the man he was talking to. After some hand motions by the new owner of the sidearm, a group of gray coated soldiers came forward and gathered up Serge and his comrades.

All of them placed their hands on their heads in total surrender and the Amestrians gathered them into ranks and started to march them back to their own army.

* * *

There were a lot of things that Roy didn't like about Briggs. It was cold, wet, and every one took themselves far too seriously. He had a certain amount of respect, due to his command of the troops during the Revolution, but his lack of eyesight and familiar territory left his stumbling around like an idiot. He was trying not to use his new Lieutenant as a walking stick, as he had with Riza, for fear that he would stumble into her in the hallways and wind up with holes in places that he would rather leave intact. He had already come in abrupt contact with three soldiers, which he was sure had nearly gotten him punched in the face before they noticed the stars on his uniform.

In the days after Sherman had launched his assault on Drachma, the Amestrian Government had started to send troops to the north. As a result, Roy felt it prudent to move his unit up with it. He needed to have a closer eye on the happenings of the war in general. He felt useless stuck in Central, having to rely on Riza and her unit to feed him information. He wasn't planning on assimilating Hawkeyes' ROSE into his own, but they could work hand in hand much better if their offices were right next to each other. Riza wasn't exactly complaining about his new arrangements, either.

Roy fumbled around the wall before he found the doorknob to the office. Swinging to the door open he could practically feel all the eyes turn to him. Hearing the sound of boots slapping to attention, he turned mechanically to the sound and brought his hand up to his forehead, and swinging it back down. He called out to Riza, and had to catch himself before he addressed her as Lieutenant. "Colonel? I need to talk to-"

"Who's the girl?" she interrupted, her voice firm and strict, just as how he remembered it.

"Sophie Lancaster, 2nd Lieutenant." The two women exchanged salutes.

"So you're my replacement. Classy, Roy, though I wasn't aware you went for brunettes. Was it really that hard to keep your hands to yourself?" He could hear the playful tone in her voice, but there was also a hint of jealousy. It actually made Roy's heart beat a little faster in pride.

"I thought you'd be thrilled, Colonel. Or would you rather me have gotten a man to fill your place?" The room paused in silence and Lancaster was struggling to withhold a giggle.

"You're dismissed, 2nd Lieutenant." Riza's voice was pointed, though he could sense his Lieutenant pause at the order. She wasn't use to Hawkeye bossing her around, so she wasn't sure if she should obey it. That would probably change in the time they were there.

"You'd better follow the order. I can't be held responsible for what will happen to you if you don't." He smiled at her kindly. She spoke a quiet yessir and exited the room, shutting the door in the process. "Now, Colonel-" He was almost immediately cut off by the lips of his old lover. It was a drug. He hadn't realized how much he had missed her in the time apart from her, now his mind and body was roaring in joy at the reunion. His arms instinctively wrapped themselves around her waist and he felt himself get rammed against a wall with passionate force.

"Who's the girl?" she repeated. He was still reeling from the sensation of the touch to be able to answer coherently right away.

"What girl?" he asked after a couple seconds. He honestly had no idea who she was talking about. His mind could only concentrate on one thing at that moment, and it had nothing to do with anyone but her.

"Stop being an idiot, Sir. You seem to have moved on pretty quick." Sensing danger on the horizon, Roy forced his mind into his control, and searched his memories for the woman she was talking about.

"Oh Lancaster? She's nothing." He thought for a moment and realized that she was defending her territory. Having recovered his cool head, he smirked at her with a smirk that he hadn't used in ages. "Why, Lieutenant Colonel? Are we getting jealous?"

"Damn right I am. If she lays so much as a finger on you, I'm going to cut hers and yours off. Don't think I'm kidding."

"Wouldn't dream of it." She broke out of their embrace, leaving him blind in the foreign office.

**Okay, so at this point I'm going to make a resolve to never "no be happy with this chapter" again, because I 'm sure it's getting on you guy's nervs. It's just, this could become "Red Walrus's Wargasm" all too easy, so you guys need to put me in my place if I get out of hand. AND, I'm always willing to listen to something that says "this chapter wasn't that great". of course.**


	19. Six Weeks in and Plotting

**So there is A LOT of military jargon and politics/ battle plans and stuff in this chapter. This is mainly because I am REALLY not happy with the last chapter, and I realized why I didn't like it. So, I hope you enjoy, because I found my bearings and I am happy with this chapter.**

**Note on story/ Factoid: Some of the numbers may seem a bit odd, but hell; this is Russia, I mean Drachma we're talking about. F.Y.I., In World War 2, or "The Great Patriotic War" If your Russian and awesome, the Red Army started with about 5 million total men in their service, and ended with about 35 million in total, give or take a few million (in my opinion, if you can legitimately say "give or take a few million, then that's saying something), not counting losses. In comparison to modern day America, the US has approximately 2.5 million spanning all members including reserves, so in reality, about 1.5 million in actual duty (US Army, US Navy, United States Air Force (USAF), United States Marine Corps (USMC), and the US Coast Guard (LOL)). Anyway, on with the story. **

**(Fun Game: See if you can figure out what historical figure Sherman is based off of! =D)**

"Join the Army, Travel to Exotic Lands, Meet Unusual People, and Kill Them."  
-_Unknown_

" It's been six weeks, and we can't say we even know what you're trying to accomplish, General. Do you have an objective?" The question offended Martel. The question accused him of ignoring one of the core principles of warfare, as laid out by the Amestrian Field Manuel and drilled into the minds of Officers beginning in the Officer Training School. He could recite them from the top off his head, and any officer worth his salt wouldn't execute the smallest of operations without thoroughly considering each dimension and principal.

Offensive: the plan itself; to seize, retain, and exploit the initiative. Mass: knowing where to place the majority of forces to overwhelm the enemy with outstanding decisiveness, at the proper time. Economy of Force: the proper use of all available assets; allocation of minimal essential combat power to secondary tasks. Maneuver: placing the enemy in a position of disadvantage by the proper exploitation of Mass and flexibility. Unity of Command: keeping a singular commander in charge of every Objective, and one commander in charge of all forces in the operation. Security; disallowing the enemy any unexpected advantages, whether it is through espionage or lack of adequate preparation. Surprise: the element of. Striking the enemy at a time and place in which they least expect it, otherwise the exploitation of their lack of security. Simplicity: keeping the operation clean and controlled using clear, unmistakable orders in order to ensure understanding. And finally, perhaps the most important principal, Objective; having every operation headed with clearly defined, obtainable objectives, and having all sub goals contribute to the overall goal.

"I thought my objective was clear, Councilman. I plan on marching into Fredricksburg and dethroning the Drachmann Monarchy." In reality, that was a very small part of his overall goal, but as far as the Council and the Amestrian public needed to know, that was the extent of it. As "the Drachmann Rulers were responsible for the conflict," it would be perfectly justified and perfectly acceptable for Martel to topple the Tsar and place a Congressional Democracy in its place; indeed, not only was it justified, but it would even seem like a step to peace. In reality, Martel had no plan to annex Drachma into Amestris but he wanted to be able to control their country vicariously. If he kept the Tsar in office, then the government would be too strong for his corruption. A congressional Democracy however… Well, they would be easy to manipulate.

"And just how do you expect to do that, General? Fredricksburg lies two and a half thousand miles away from your Expeditionary Force. In between them lies the Drachmann Royal Military, a force six million strong, and you can believe that they will only increase in size. Can you press through a force that is more than three times our total?"

"I have every confidence in Major General Sherman's ability to follow through with his orders, along with the rest of my General Staff. If there is anyone I'm worried about, it's the Northern division of the State Army."

"Now wait just a second!"Lt. General Hakuro, who had been promoted after the High Command of the ASA was cut down to size, stood up and objected angrily to Martel's statement. Hakuro, in Martel's eyes, was promoted as a result of desperation, and didn't quite fill the shoes of a three star. Yet. "My men can hold their own just the same as any ARPG grey skins can! Don't act like we're the weak link." Martel withheld a smirk from Hakuro's aggressive reaction. It wasn't the Army he had no confidence in; not in the north anyway. It was the command. What he didn't understand was why the man in front of him was placed in charge of the Northern forces while they had Olivier Armstrong in the area. He liked Armstrong. It had disappointed him greatly when she broke away from the Guard in order to Queen her soldiers in Briggs; so much that he had campaigned to have the division in Briggs assimilated in the Guard.

"Of course not," he said, humoring the Lt. General aside him. "If you'll allow me to finish, I was about to say that I fear for the ASA because they will be the ones who have to hold a static defense on our supply lines. The Northern Division will be under near constant assault by everything from rogue partisan groups to direct siege orchestrated by the Drachmann Royal Military. Do you think you can with weather the storm of constant war, Lt. General?" The man he was addressing glared at him defiantly for a moment before responding.

"I'll manage, General. You don't need to worry about your supply lines."

"Wonderful. I'm glad I have your confidence. However," he turned back to the board of council members. "I'm not sure how much I can rely on confidence in the face of sheer numbers. If the ASA can keep the DRM at bay, then that's wonderful, however, I think each of you can be sympathetic in my plight to even the battlefields. It's for the motive that I'm proposing a draft for the peoples of Amestris." The world seemed to pause in a moment of silence as everyone processed the concept. After the moment passed, life exploded back into the room. While it was the desired result, the lack of professionalism the council was expressing disgusted Martel.

"Order! Calm down everyone!" The voices settled as the moderator called for peace.

"As much as I hate to admit it," Hakuro started, "GEN Martel has a point. The more muscle we have, the less we'll suffer from the Drachmann assaults on Sherman's supply lines." The ironic thing about what Hakuro was saying was that Martel knew that there was no hope to keep the supply lines intact. Martel had ordered Sherman to plunge straight into the heart of The Beast and, as such, there protection on their flanks. As the standings were now, they were already vastly outnumbered, and even with the draft cleared, Martel doubted that would change much.

The truth was that Martel was counting on the Army to fail in the effort to secure the lines. In his opinion, that was what they did best. Most any officer would look at his plan and, taking it at face value, would scoff at it. After all, a Military force without supplies is nothing; an army marches on its stomach. Sherman, however, had the greatest source of supplies there was to offer; the route he would be taking would lead him directly through the breadbasket cities of Drachma and, halfway through the Burkan Oil Fields. As soon as the ASA was no longer supporting him, Sherman would take everything he could use, and burn everything he couldn't. He would destroy farms, livestock, railways, and everything short of citizens, in the name of depriving the enemy of resources.

Sherman would burn Drachma to the ground.

"Given the land gained by your troops, general, we will continue increasing your funding." He dropped out of his half interested, half paying attention state as he heard what he had wanted to hear. "And, we will consider the draft. Both of you are dismissed."

"Thank you for your time, Councilmen." Martel turned around and left, glad to have the Council out of his receding hair.

* * *

Ed would be lying if he said the respect he was commanding wasn't going to his head. There was something about walking down a hallway and having everyone stiffen into a salute as you passed, and not even having to pay attention to them. It even made wearing the heavy blue wool of the uniform worth the effort.

OTS had changed him, in a sense. He felt like a soldier, like an officer, even despite his exceptionally young age. He was the Fullmetal Alchemist; as such the soldiers already had a certain respect for him. He imagined that Colonel, no, damnit, MajGen Mustang received the same treatment. He was told that despite official rank as Major he would receive the responsibilities of a Captain. Even that seemed a big role to fill immediately, but that was only when taken at face value. He wasn't _commanding_ the men, so much as leading them. His Deputy Officer had the job of directing the men in combat, but their role was basically just to protect him.

As a combat resource, he was quite an asset. His skills, as he was told, could alter the tide of a battle by himself alone. That being said, he was starting to understand the true meaning of the term "Dog of the Military". Where he could change the tide of a battle with a simple alteration of the terrain, he could also ultimately doom them if he was careless. With the reputation Ed had built for himself, they had spent extra time drilling that into his head. He was to do exactly what they said, at the time that they said it.

Above that, other officers and higher NCOs held a certain amount of disdain for him. A lot of people treated him like a 2nd Lieutenant. The first Sergeant Major he came across didn't salute him and, in fact, barely showed any signs acknowledging his presence. When he questioned him about it, the Sergeant practically tore him a new one. After chewing him out for upwards of ten minutes and calling him pipsqueak over and over again, he sent him off to GEN Grumman and told him to ask him what he'd done wrong. TO top it all off, in the middle of the berating, a "real" Major passed them in the hallway and the Sergeant Major snapped to attention until he returned the salute.

When Ed told Grumman what had happened, the old General laughed with amusement. He went on to informed him that the Sergeant Major had been in the service for thirty years and had seen three different conflicts in his career. He also told him that it would be best to treat anyone above the rank of Staff Sergeant with a certain level of respect, at least until he got some legitimate experience under his belt. Ed didn't try to walk quite so tall after that.

"Ah. Major Elric. Just who I wanted to see." General Grumman quickly ushered Ed into the room and sat him down in the chair across from his desk. "Edward, my boy, I'm glad I caught you before left. You're headed down to the frontlines, are you not?"

"Yes sir. My train leaves in a half hour, in fact, so if you could…" The old man left out some gentle laughs and waved off Ed's concerns.

"Don't be so stressed. You have plenty of time." Somehow, Ed wasn't convinced. "So, how is your little girly friend doing?" Ed could feel his eyes roll. It was because of this sort of thing that he was trying to sneak past the old man's office. On the off occasion that Grumman actually had a purpose to his babbling, it always seemed hidden behind a forest of stories, odd interests, and nosing into his personal life. It wasn't that he didn't like the old man, but sometimes he wondered how he managed to get as far as he did.

"She's my mechanic, Sir. And last time I saw her, she wasn't very happy."

"My, my, little one. Having woman problems? You should clear those up before going up North. You won't be able to see her in a while." His sing-songy voice drug on Ed's nerves, already irate at the name "little one". The temperance training and the old man's rank were the only things preventing him from assaulting the offender. "After all, if you don't fix your problems now, you may end up sleeping on the couch the next time you see her." Ed's face flushed at the casual comment.

"I think the only thing I having waiting with her is another wrench to be thrown at my head. I think I'll stay my distance." Anyway, Winry had made it pretty clear that he wasn't going to get any action for a good long time. "She's still mad at me for being in the Army. So really it's your own damn fault."

"I wasn't the one who signed you up. Besides, if it was my choice, I would never send a child like you into war." Grumman's sudden serious demeanor took Ed off guard. He wasn't teasing, he wasn't goading, but rather, his eyes hung with compassion. At that moment in time, Ed remembered that he _was _a child. He didn't belong in this uniform, he belonged in a T-shirt. He should be going to school, not off to a foreign country to kill people.

"Is there a reason you called me in here, sir?" Ed asked, changing the subject after a moment of heavy silence.

"Yes, actually. I was going through my things, and I noticed this rook that Mustang seemed to have left here. You are going up north, aren't you?" Ed nodded. "Wonderful! Then, could you be a good little boy and hands deliver it to him?" Ed took the wooden chess piece from him and looked at it. "Don't take no for an answer, either. I know for a fact that belongs to him." The old man's eyes seemed to sparkle mischievously.

"Uh, of course, Sir."

"Now, off you go, boy! You have a train to catch!" Grumman nearly pushed the blond outside of his office and quickly shut the door, leaving the sixteen year old very confused.

* * *

"Look. Usually, around three hours after sunset, the guard changes, and it takes around fifteen minutes for the replacement to arrive that gives us more than enough time to escape, so long as we can find something to cut the wires." Serge starred at the diagram drawn into the dirt and considered the plan. If they were caught, then they could be executed, based on the stories they tossed around in his homeland, but it might've been worth the risk. They all felt useless here, and if they could get out then they could go back to assisting the war effort.

And, as far as he could tell, the plan seemed airtight, except for one detail.

"That leaves the problem of finding something to cut the wires with," he said. "If we can't do that then all of this plotting is useless." One of his fellow inmates got a giant grin on his face.

"I have something." Looking around to make no one was watching he snuck back to his sleeping quarters motioned for them to follow him. As they gathered around him, he reached underneath the hay of his mattress and pulled out a five inch knife. As he unsheathed it, the blade glimmered in the dim light and revealed the serrated edges on the bottom.

"Where'd you get that," someone asked.

"You don't want to know." His mouth was still stretched widely across his face in a wicked smile.

"It smells like anus, man." As he said that everyone seemed to put two and two together. "Shit, that must've hurt."

"Like a bitch. I think it'll pay off, though." As they gawked at the knife, the rustle of footsteps sounded from near the entrance of the POW quarters. All the men in the circle panicked and scattered from the scene. The owner of the knife quickly shoved it back into its resting place, and Serge dashed for the map drawn into the dirt of the floor. To prevent suspicion, Serge lay directly on top of the spot of dirt he was covering, trying to look like he had been laying there for a long time.

"You men aren't very good at being convincing." Shit. They were being careless, and it was entirely possible that it would cost them their escape plan, if not their lives. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're planning something." He was the only one in the group who spoke Amestrian, but he could tell the men around him could tell the woman's presence didn't bode well.

"Of course we aren't, ma'am. We wouldn't dream of doing something so stupid." He expected to catch the woman off by speaking in her tongue. He failed.

"Oh yes you would, Serge. You've never liked to be cooped up like this." Wait, that voice… He turned to look at the woman and found that he recognized her face. It was the face that had been purposefully burned into his memory.

"Sophie?" She looked directly into his eyes, and nodded gently. Leaping to his feet, he made his way to the fence separating them and grabbed for her fingers through the chicken wire. She put her fingers against his, and looked into his eyes. "What are you doing here?" She smiled gently and let his question go unanswered. They stood there for a moment, connected by a thin layer of skin.

"Don't do anything stupid, okay? I want my fiancé alive at the end of this stupid war." She turned and left him, clearly having gotten what she came for.

"Damn, boy. Who was that?" He turned to his comrades who were whistling after the beauty that had just exited the scene. "Looks like Sarge is gettin' some action from the other side!"

"Stuff it, Corporal. Your just jealous 'cause you couldn't get a woman even if you paid her."There was no hostility in their words. Just a bunch of deprived soldiers passing the time.

"No Shit, Sarge. Igor resorts to shoving knives up his ass, instead."

* * *

Hadn't thought that he would have to add a half steel shrimp with an attitude problem to his list of things he didn't like about Briggs. His Lieutenant was gone, with his permission, however, so he hadn't been allowed to screen his guests which resulted in the State Alchemist who was supposedly standing in front of him.

"I had figured that I finally found a place that you wouldn't be able to track me down to, Fullmetal. Seems I underestimated your ability to be a thorn in my side," he said with an arrogant smirk.

"Yeah, well, I figured I'd drop by to bug you one last time before I steal your fame as a State Alchemist. I just wanted to give you a chance to relish it before I'm the one making the headlines," he retorted, just as cockily as Roy himself.

"Wait, you're not…?"

"I leave for the frontlines at nine hundred in the morning." Roy stomach lurched as his paternal instincts kicked in. Ed wasn't even seventeen, and they were sending him to war? That wasn't right. Ed shouldn't even have been old enough to join the Military, much less fight in it. More than that, it was Roy's fault that he was. He could be killed, or worse. Despite having seen so much for a child his age, even the closest thing to the end of the world, Ed hadn't been through true hell. As cocky as he was being, he almost acted like he was excited for it.

Roy rubbed his hairline line. As much as he tried to rack his memory for bureaucratic overrides to get Ed as far away from the war as possible, he could find none.

"I… I don't know what to say. Why didn't you hand in your license as soon as you could have?"

"I guess because I was lazy. I still had the grant money coming in every month, and I figured that… Well, it doesn't really matter anymore, does it?" Roy sighed.

"No, it doesn't. Why are you here, Fullmetal? Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Well, I just got in, and GEN Grumman wanted me to give this to you. Said 'you had a piece missing' or something." Roy felt something the size of a film canister hit him in the chest. Grabbing for it, his fingers informed him that it was a wooden rook.

"Missing? Last time I checked, my set was full-" Ed cut him off before he could finish.

"He told me 'not to take no for an answer." Thinking about it, it started to sound suspicious. Placing a hold on the head piece, he gently twisted the bottom. After a fair amount of pressure it gave way a bit, and Roy quickly shoved it into his pocket for later.

"Thank you. Is that all?" Ed grunted in acknowledgement. "Right then. You are dismissed." After a moment Roy heard the boot falls of boots that sounded suspiciously like military issue leave his office. Before the door closed, however, he heard the sound of an about face.

'Right! I almost forgot!" Ed quickly closed the distance between them and slammed something down on the table.

"What's this?"

"Do you want to see again, Mustang?" Did his God Mother like brandy?

"What is this, Fullmetal?" he asked for the second time.

"Take this to the Optometrist at the Central State Hospital and tell her Ed sent you. She'll know what to do." With that the boy finally exited the room.

**SO! I have three chapters left, I think. As I said, I think that I got back into the flow of this, now, which s why you get the early update. I hope you like it! If not, please tell me, of course, but **_**I**_ **like it…**

**(By the way, I got a Slap Chop for Easter, which means I have a rich, Exciting life now!)**


	20. Tanks on the Horizon

**I wish that I could put a photograph at the start of a story/chapter, rather than just text. Namely, a photograph, which you may have seen, called/referred to as "Execution at Saigon". Seriously, if you haven't seen it, I would strongly suggest looking it up (google image search would suffice) because it is honestly one of the most powerful pictures I have seen in my life. It isn't exactly for the "faint of heart" but, I still think everyone should see it. Even if you get the urge to throw up. **

**Ok, so in the next few weeks or so, Updates may be a bit delayed, or even non-existent, due to another writing project I have going on. It is, of course, a war fic (big surprise, I know) but it's not royai, or even fanfiction for that matter, so I you won't be seeing it around here, but I did make a fiction press under the same pen name, and I'll probably put in there. Incidentally, I'd need someone to revise it, so if you'd be interested, I'd be glad to docx it over to you, and I'd basically love you if you did. As far as the update thing, reviews might help give me the motivation to update faster, but no guarantees. Now, on with the story.**

"The deadliest weapon in the world is a marine and his rifle. It is your killer instinct which must be harnessed if you expect to survive in combat. Your rifle is only a tool. It is a hard heart that kills. If your killer instincts are not clean and strong you will hesitate at the moment of truth. You will not kill. You will become dead marines and then you will be in a world of shit because marines are not allowed to die without permission. Do you maggots understand?"  
-Gunnery Sergeant Hartman

Serge opened his eyes slightly to check the guard. Despite his seemingly comfortable position, the adrenaline was coursing through his veins, and his senses were more alert than they ever had been. As if on queue, the old guard yawned loudly as he was leaving his post. Right on time. He got up, quickly but silently, and moved to the chicken wire, to visually clear the area. Not a soldier in sight. "Fifteen minutes. It's now or never, men." The other prisoners rose from their faux sleeping positions and joined him at the wire wall. "Igor, hand me the knife." Igor did so immediately, reaffirming Serge's position as the commander.

With the knife in hand, Serge held out his other hand to hold his fingers as he counted off. "I want one eye on me, and two eyes on everything else. Danik, step lightly. That goes for the rest of you as well. No talking or whispering, and that includes coughing. And, most importantly, were not home until we're home. I don't care if you see your Goddamned mother, you don't acknowledge her, and if she's in your way, kill her." He said the last part for more himself than anyone else. Sophie was the enemy, despite the feelings they had, and if she saw them then she wouldn't hesitate to do her duty, so neither could he.

The men surrounding him nodded their heads in acknowledgement and Serge set to work on the chicken wire with his knife. It took about five of their precious minutes to hack a hole in the fence that was large enough for each man to file through, leaving ten minutes left before an alert went up. Wordlessly, he told his men to stay on him by sticking two fingers into the air and spinning them in a circle. On the lead, Serge pressed his back to the corner of the small shed that had housed them. Peaking from the edge, their path was clear.

Knife still in hand, Serge led the small group of men through the encampment. Feeling a hand tap his shoulder, he turned his attention behind him to see a hand waggle in his right. Looking to the area that was indicated, he saw an enemy soldier walking to somewhere. Quickly, but ever silently, he led his men to nearby cover, relying on the shadows to cover them. The soldier paused slightly and looked up, and Serge's heart thrashed inside his ribcage. A moment passed before the soldier turned his attention back to the object in his hands and continued along his path. Serge had to physically prevent himself from releasing a breath of relief.

Before leaving their cover, Serge took a second to gather his bearings and to allow his comrades to do the same. Time was pressing against them, but if anyone of them got too jumpy it could get them all killed. A level head was needed just as much as anything.

Just as Serge was about to take the point again, another man came into his view. Serge motioned a command to stay in the cover and watched the man walk right by them. As he passing, one of Serge's own men made a small noise, a slight rustle on the ground. The man stopped in his tracks and looked in the general direction of the noise. That was not good. In the split seconds he had to think, Serge stood quickly and wrapped his arms around the Amestrian soldier, covering his mouth and nostrils with a meaty hand. With a forceful thrust, he shoved the knife into the man's side, and felt the man squirm against him.

After ten or so seconds of holding the struggling man, Serge's victim lost consciousness and Serge placed him in the cover he had previously occupied. With an urgent wave to his men, Serge started moving through the encampment a lot faster. With a man out, things would start to fall apart. They still maintained some of their stealth, but it was a second thought. It was about a minute after they had moved on that he realized he should have grabbed the man's pistol.

* * *

Central was very hot. Six months ago, the thought would have never crossed Riza's mind, especially after the deserts of Ishbal, but after living in the Brigg for three or so months, she felt like she was going to overheat from the thin wool of the military uniforms. The skirt that Roy had insisted she wore helped, but she still wished she had worn the cotton uniform she still had from Ishbal.

Actually, Riza was confused _why_ Roy had adamant about her wearing the skirt. She knew that he had enjoyed the sight of her in something that showed off her legs a little more (though she personally couldn't understand why), but that couldn't be what he was going for. Obviously. He had even tried getting her in one that went down to her mid-thigh. That had earned him a playful slap in the cheek, which had led to a playful slap on her butt, followed by a playful peck on his lips, and ultimately to her _playfully_ foregoing a skirt altogether. At least, until it was absolutely necessary to leave their hotel room.

As inappropriate as it seemed, it had been something that she found incredibly relieving. She hadn't quite realized how much she had needed it, until afterward. The past months had been some of the more stressful in her life. All things considered, that was saying a lot. Between constantly masquerading as Armstrong (a package that came with an annoying hair style and level of bitchiness that even _she _wasn't comfortable with) and leading her own men in coordination with Roy's, she had felt like a piano string. Every added responsibility wound the gears of stress, and wore on her mental state a little more, and she was afraid it would snap the slightest thing went wrong. Roy's delicate and impassioned touch had been a lovely way to wind down a bit, and she felt herself smiling for the first time in ages.

"My my, aren't we the happy one." Hearing the familiar voice of her second in command, she turned her attention to the towering figure beside her. He must have just gotten back from wherever it was that he had run off to, or he had just walked into the clinic without her noticing a while go. She was fairly sure it was the former; she could usually pick up on his presence by this point, unless he was intentionally sneaking around. Even then… "Did the Hayate, or did Mustang plant some in _you_?" To her surprise, the question made her cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"I- wait. There is no way you could have gathered that from looking at me." Even he couldn't pick up on her expressions that easily.

"The walls have ears, Lt. General. Especially the way you tend to scream. You should probably try to be a little more subtle." Damn. She had gotten used to Roy's soundproof office, and he had always liked it when she… ahem.

"Speaking of subtlety, Kellogg, we're in public."

"Of course, Lt. General." The damn smirk was still spread across his face, and she could bring herself to call him out on it. This was barely "public" anyhow, they were the only ones in the lobby, and Roy was the only patient in the doctor's care. It was Central, but not even close to HQ, so they wouldn't have to worry about any Military personnel walking in. Probably.

The door to the office swung open, and both persons turned their attention to the entrance. Out came Roy Mustang, State Alchemist, Major General ASA, in full glory. He seemed to have a confidence in his step, that arrogant spring, which Riza barely remembered. She actually couldn't remember the last time she had seen him like this. She quickly stood to attention, but didn't bother saluting. To do so would be hazardous to her disguise; after all, she wore the ranks of a Lt. General. He strode to her purposefully and at a measured tempo, lucky to have avoided any spare furniture in the way. When he arrived at her he simply looked at her. Riza was dumbfounded.

His hands didn't reach out to feel her, as they normally would. Rather, a stare, directly into her eyes. He wore no gentle smile. Instead the smirk, the _Mustang _smirk, was spread arrogantly across his face, and she couldn't make two cents of it. He couldn't see, so what was he looking at? As if to defy her thought process, Roy marched right by her and reached his arm out to grasp the door handle, removing the last shield between him and the world.

"You forget how pretty the simple things are," he muttered, almost to himself. Could it be possible? He turned back to her, and his eyes trailed lecherously down her body. "Though, they could never hold a candle to the truly beautiful."

She was at a loss for words. Not at his cheesy romantic speech, but everything was back. His attitude, his posture, that look in his eyes… His vision? That bullshit cliché, staring into the soul through their eyes, had never sold itself to her. Losing his ability to see had done nothing to make him any less readable; the odd quirks of his cheek muscles stayed the same. But they always had a fog about them. Like he was staring into the distance, constantly looking, but never finding what it was that he was looking for. That was gone. He had found what he had sought.

He had found her.

As ridiculous as it sounded, even in the confines of his own mind, he knew it was true as soon as he saw her. He supposed she had always been the thing he imagined when he thought about being cured, but she looked even better in reality than he remembered. He didn't like her hair, though. He had always had that image of the back end forced over itself in the vice grip of its clip, while the bangs cut across her forehead in her sexy, Riza-esque fashion. Even when it was let loose from its shackles, it was still distinctly her. The Olivier cut wasn't working for him.

_But that's your own damn fault, Roy Mustang_.

It took him a second to realize who the man standing beside his woman was. He was tall, as tall as Jean had been, and his golden hair stuck out of his grey infantry beret. He wore a uniform of the same color, and had the stripes of an NCO. Four on the bottom and three on the top. In the space between the blades and chalices was a small bomb. Master Gunnery Sergeant, if his memory of the ARPG ranks served correctly. Suddenly, it hit him.

"Kellogg?" The man saluted.

"Major General. It's good to see you're cured." Roy saluted him off, finally having a face to connect with the previously disembodied voice.

As much he wanted to stand around and absorb everything around him, he knew that he could not. He had work to do, and Generals to meet with.

* * *

Hearing a bullet whiz overhead, Ed had the realization that being small was a definite advantage on the battlefield. Immediately turning to where the round had originated from, he slammed his hand on the ground and broke the ground underneath his would-be killer. With a shift of alchemic intention, the ground healed itself, burying the man with it. He had no time to dwell on the life he had just took. That could come later. Now he just had time to turn to the next target, the next objective.

They had told him that he would be defending the ASA supply lines, so he had figured that it would be an easy job. Most of the fighting would happen on the frontlines, and he would be fending off the occasional Drachmann partisan groups that popped up once in a while.

That was nowhere near the reality.

This was the third strike raid conducted by the _professional_ Drachmann Army this week alone. They just kept coming. So far each one was small and manageable, but each wreaked havoc on their moral, numbers, and the very lines they were protecting.

"Major!" A sergeant under his command was yelling for his attention and Ed granted him it. "Drachmann armor approaching from the east. We don't have anti-tank weaponry. Gunny Williams requests your assistance." Shit. This was the first time they had seen tanks attack this area, so they hadn't packed the panzerfausts. He made a mental note to order some after the battle was over.

"Can you manage without me?"

"There's about four T35s, and we don't have anything heavier than hand grenades. With all due respect, sir, if you don't get your ass down there, we're gonna have our asses blown halfway to hell." Ed considered what the man said for about a second before abandoning his task to go to the support of his men.

The tanks had already penetrated their perimeter and were on their way to the stalled trucks. Clearly Drachma wasn't diverting their main forces from Sherman and his ARPG expeditionary unit, but rather sending a fraction of its forces to the more venerable tail of the forces. The lessons of Economy of Force flashed across Ed's mind. They were getting the B team, because they weren't the threat. It didn't quite sound right to Ed, however. These raids were effective, but not as effective as one big punch would be. Rather than dwelling on it, however, Ed put it to the back of his mind and worked the ground to wreck the small armor unit in front of him.

* * *

"Martel? He was me and Liv's Commanding General during the war. Good man. Good general." Felix knew that what he said fell on half deaf ears. The sexual tension in the car was near unbearable. Mustang wasn't even trying to be subtle, looking Hawkeye up and down and taking in every detail presented to him. Particularly her chest. Hawkeye wasn't complaining, however. That surprised Felix. He imagined that she would have slapped him, physically or mentally, just as she did when he had made snide comments or placed his seeing hands in an inappropriate spot on her body. Instead, she was just glancing at him nervously every once in a while.

Felix started at the horn blast and directed his attention back at the traffic. He was a shitty enough driver as it was, but with his concentration on the two in the back seat, he had slipped halfway across the yellow lines into oncoming traffic. The horn blast had been accompanied with shouted vulgarities that he had no pride to return. Swerving back into his proper lane, he nearly overcompensated into the sidewalk, frightening pedestrians.

Driving was never something that he acquired the knack for, but neither was it something that he participated in enough to be decent at. He knew the streets of Central well enough, or at least well enough to be able to locate HQ, but he still managed to get lost for a good seven minutes. The officers in the back hadn't noticed. About thirty minutes late, the car arrived at HQ. They were here to meet with the man in charge of ever illusive East City Project. It was something that Mustang had declared he never would think about looking into, if Grumman hadn't sent him a note with its name on it, and he had still been skeptical about it. Mustang's loyalty to the old General had won out, however, and he had taken the time to have Felix look the reports on it up.

In his research he had found almost nothing on it, save for the decoys about reinstating farms in the East City Slums and the name of the man in charge. Felix hadn't bought those for a second, as the name was that of GEN Erwin Martel, and there wasn't a chance in hell the Chief General of the Amestrian Royal Presidential Guard would be rebuilding farms in slum towns. The name was somewhere to start, however, and that was better than nothing. With the weight that Mustang carried as 1st Command of ROSE, it could be enough to get total clearance. Knowing Martel, however, it wouldn't be.

Felix opened the door for Hawkeye first, not because she was a lady, but rather because she wore the stars of a Lieutenant General, and then Mustangs before following behind the two of them into the military complex.

* * *

Ed whipped around as he heard multiple tank blasts coming from the opposite direction. He couldn't believe his own eyes. He didn't want to. Pressing against the bulk of their army from three different masses was a force of tanks at least twenty times as large as the ones he had just dealt with Everything before had simply been the calm before the storm, a distraction to get them confident in their ability to fend off the small strikes. Furthermore, even if Ed had the ability to take care of a force that large, he wasn't even close to the enemy forces. He shouldn't have removed himself from his main post.

As he was about to start his run back to the frontlines of the combat, enemy artillery shells started to rain down between him and the supply trucks. _Damnit_, he thought. Then a realization occurred to him. _They're targeting me_. It sent shivers down his spine. They had sent a small unit of tanks on the opposite side of the battlefield, knowing they weren't prepared to fight tanks, in a ploy to move the State Alchemist that was causing them trouble over their do deal with them. Then, when they estimated that he'd be on his way back, they started to shell the area of his path. _And they came damn close_.

At a total loss of action, all Ed could do was watch the enemy armor tear through his men as he waited for the artillery to subside.

* * *

Roy sat in the lobby of GEN Martel's office, waiting to be let in by Martel's secretary. Riza and Kellogg were outside of the office altogether, Kellogg having announced that Armstrong had known Martel on a personal level, and that it was risky to let him see Riza as he would pick up on her disguise. As much as Roy didn't like the idea of letting Riza out of his sight, as he had just gotten her back in it, he relented. There was no reason for her to join them anyhow, and Roy needed to exercise restraint. He couldn't comprise her just because of his feelings. He was more professional than that.

"The General will see you now." Roy nodded to the secretary and entered the large oak doors of Martel's office. Behind his desk sat the stern faced General dressed in a heavily starched uniform carpeted with honors displaying unit citations, personal honors, and wars which he had participated in. He took a seat in the chair at the other side of the desk and sat confidently cross-legged. Roy knew that if he showed weakness then Martel would exploit it, but he wasn't worried. This was his element, cutting through the layers of impressions and bureaucracy within the ranks of the military. In truth, he loved this game. Both of them would be innocent on the face, trying to discover and manipulate the other's motives.

"So. I need clearance to everything you know about the East City Project." Mustang started the conversation. Next came the deflection in the form of token courtesy.

"As I've heard, Major General. I can't fathom why you assume you have the ability to order me around with such authority." Ok, say Martel was a bit more straight forward than Roy had expected. Although, Roy could still hear the real question he was asking; _who are you compared to me?_ To answer, and to flaunt his power, Roy removed a form from his pocket.

"I have a council order to grant me access to any and all classified documents, no matter who they are classified under, so long as they do not disallow me access specifically." Martel took the form from Roy and skimmed through it.

"ROSE? Never heard of them."

"That is because I am _very _good at my job." Martel looked skeptical, but played along nonetheless.

"Okay, General Mustang. You have me. As much as I despise the council, I play by their rules. You have can have total access to any and all classified information pertaining to the East City Project." Roy could tell that Martel wasn't planning on relinquishing the real documents as Martel opened his desk and handed him a manila folder full of paperwork. "This is everything about the ECP that is not in public record. It reassures me to know that our counties fine programs are making sure the slums get rebuilt in this time of war."

Roy took the forms didn't even bother looking through them. Instead, he brought his white glove, marked with a solid black circle, and snapped his finger below it. The folder erupted in a ball of flames. It felt like riding a bike for the first time in years. He still had the talent; he just needed to iron out a few of the kinks.

"Now, General, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to cut the bullshit. What will it take for me to get you to hand over the _real _East City Project documents?" Roy's action was met by an amused laugh from Martel, catching him slightly off guard.

"I like that, Major General. I like that a lot.The Flame Alchemist indeed. Although, I thought you stopped practicing after you lost your...?"

"I did." With that Martel's real question was answered.

"Well then, I'll bite. The truth is, as I've said, I despise the council. They're as useless as they are stupid. You know that." Roy nodded. The only people who really took them seriously were the public and the officials who relied on the public. "That being said, I will give you the documents, on one condition."

"Is that so."

"I need you to escort my man, Captain Paul T. Enola, to the ARPG Expeditionary unit, led by Major General Sherman." That threw Roy off. Why would he have the faith to rely on him and his team to escort one of his men? Martel read Roy's face, and said with a smirk, "what, you think I don't know what ROSE is? I'd be unwise for you to underestimate me, Mustang." Roy stared in amazement before shaking off his dumb expression and grinned.

"I'll do it." The job would give him a good opportunity to dig into the true motives of Martel. "Just one question. Why can't you send him along the normal lines? Don't trust the Army?" Martel looked at him seriously.

"I trust the Army to do one thing, and I believe they can do that one thing like experts. Fuck things up. Our supply lines are most certainly broken, we just haven't quite gotten the word.

**Okay. I can definitely finish in two more chapters. PLEASE please ****PLEASE**** review, they really make my day.**


	21. The Calm before the Storm

**Over the past week I've been reading **_**Without Remorse **_**by Tom Clancy, and I must say, holy fuck. Seriously, amazing book. I haven't been into a book like that since I finished Sword of Truth series. And honestly, as much as I like Goodkind (author of Sword of Truth), he isn't in the same league as Clancy. It's like: Homer Shakespeare Clancy Goodkind Rowling Paolini R. L. Stine A bucket of elephant poo Stephanie Meyers. If you have the chance, pick up a Clancy novel, do so. **_**Without Remorse**_** is the one with the least amount of Military bureaucracy and such, but it's still freakin' amazing.**

"We're surrounded. That simplifies our problem of getting to these people and killing them."

-Lt. General "Chesty" Puller, November 1950, during Chosin Reservoir campaign

Military hospitals: a necessary, if sloppy, collaboration of the best doctors the military could hire. Thrown together in mobile units, the surgeons, psychiatrists, dentists, and the odd chaplain, were usually headed with a Lt. Colonel or a full Colonel, which reported to the closest military base. In this case, Briggs. If the food in hospitals was infamously bad, the food from military hospitals wasn't spoken of. "The best doctors the military could hire" typically ranged from moderately poor to inexperienced rookies, with the off handed piss poor doctor vastly outnumbering the oft wished for medical experts. All in all they did their best, which was often good enough. It could be considered an R and R for the patients; a time where they could ignore the war against the enemy and focus on the ever losing battle against boredom.

Vato hated it there.

He wasn't infantry. He wasn't artillery. He wasn't even in a combat related position. He was ROSE spy in the role of an assistant to a member of the Sherman's staff. Even more than that, he was back at the Amestrian outpost, separate from the Expeditionary force he had been assigned to and as far away from the frontlines as he could have been. Yet, even with all of that, he had managed to find himself in the wrong place at the wrong time and got himself stuck with a knife by some runaway POWs that he hadn't been aware of. As if the deep laceration hadn't been bad enough, the wound had infected badly, spreading shit-borne illness through his torso and into his limbs

The vulgarity of the youth of whom was he was surrounded by was getting to him. He found that not only were mild curses finding themselves in the midst of his spoken words, but also that they had infiltrated the depths of his fact laden mind. It wasn't that much of a surprise; such things happened when one surrounded themselves with the culture, but Vato had assumed that his increasingly elderly brain would be too old to pick up on such habits. That fact that it had had actually made Vato smile. He was still young enough to not be obsolete. Maybe approaching, but for now he was still a spring chicken. Or, at least, a fall chicken. Something like that.

"I suppose you don't have any cigarettes on you, old man." He knew that voice. Probably the youngest voice he had heard since he had been located in the frozen wasteland, but it had lost some it's arrogant spark.

"Kids shouldn't smoke."

"Yeah, well, kids shouldn't be thrown into battle either, but that hasn't stopped them, now has it? Seriously, do you have any? Quarters Officer won't give me any, and I figure you haven't touched yours. Spare some change for the poor?" Vato turned to see Edward Elric sitting comfortably in a chair next to Vato's own bed, steel arm hanging off the back support. Or was it Major Elric? Fullmetal? Being formal with the kid didn't seem quite right, but he didn't want to insult a superior. Major would do just fine, he supposed, judging from the golden leaf on the boy's collar.

"You know cigarettes will give you-"

"Lung cancer, mouth cancer, stomach cancer, fried taste bugs, an addictive habit, an unappealing smell, horn that appear on the top of my head, yeah yeah, I know, Falman. I'm a scientist, remember? You don't have to lecture me about the effects of cigs, you just have to give me the damn things." Vato looked in the kids eyes, and could tell that there was something different. The eyes of a killer? No. The eyes of someone who had killed? Closer. The eyes of a warrior? _You're getting warmer, Vato._ Shrugging, he withdrew his cigarette box from his foot locker and tossed them to Ed. As Ed had assumed, Vato hadn't touched the vile things.

"Don't get me in trouble, Major. And I don't have a light, so I hope you're prepared."

"Don't you worry, Old man," he said, an unlit stick already hanging out of his mouth. He brought his metal hand up to the end of the cigarette and rubbed his fingers together, causing a small flame to jump out of thin air. "Ahhh. Damn, these things are a life saver."

"Fire? Did the General teach you flame alchemy?" Ed looked at him blankly for a second before realizing what he was talking about and bringing his still lit finger to eye level.

"What this thing? Nah, this isn't the same thing Mustang does. I'm just separating the oxygen and the hydrogen from the air in the water, and heating it with a spark. This is easy, but what Mustang does is something else entirely. _Technically_ I could cause a large explosion with this, but I'd have no range, and I'd be hit the hardest. As much as I would _love _to know how to spin fire around like that arrogant prick, he would never teach me." Vato hear that the words were a little more weighted than he passed them off as, but he didn't press the matter. It wasn't his place, after all. "Say, Falman, how'd you end up in here? I didn't think that they'd place you in a place that could get your ass killed. Did they find that they didn't like you as much as they thought they would or somethin'?"

"No, some Drachmann ass stabbed me with a knife." Recognition sprang into Ed's eyes and he took an excited drag.

"You mean those escaped POWs? Damn, I heard about them. I didn't know you were the guy who got shanked. They held a public trial for the guard that was on duty. Turns out he had left fifteen minutes early or something. They want to make an example of him. He's facing a firing squad in a week." Damn. Well, served the fool right. As much as he hated the idea of turning their rifles on their own people, Vato recognized the value of putting their foot down. After all, ignoring night guard duties was a capital offense, and Vato doubted he'd be hearing of any similar cases after the result of this one. Still, the casual way Ed had rattled it off was somewhat disturbing to Vato.

"What are you doing here, Major? You're not injured. Aren't you supposed to be guarding supply lines?"

"I was, but turns out it's a little hard to defend a handful of trucks form a division of T-35 battle tanks. We've been regrouping here for a good two weeks or so. I heard you woke up, so I figured I'd pop in before we left for the frontlines again." He wanted to see Vato specifically, a remnant from his past life. It made sense. It was then that he finally recognized the look in Ed's eyes.

"Don't get yourself killed, Edward. You have people back home, don't forget." Ed smiled sheepishly, and scratched the back of his neck.

"Of course, Falman. Win said she'd kill me if I did." They had told each other that the boys had grown up too fast, and now that was truly showing itself. Not the eyes of a killer, but they eyes that had seen things that they shouldn't have. A warrior, yes, but above all else: the eyes of an adult.

* * *

"War is hell. I know that. But damnit, if it wasn't for moments like this, I'd find it a lot easier to believe that." Sherman had the greatest fighting force on this planet. Of that he had no doubt. These soldiers had marched through Drachma at an astounding speed, crushing the professional army of Drachma in every battle, and not blinking at the Drachmann partisan groups that had pestered them throughout their march. With no supplies coming from his country, they had still managed to seize the Burkan oil fields without too much of a problem. With the food they had pillaged from the towns they marched through, his men were as well fed as his tanks were. And now, he had his ultimate objective in sight.

He was standing upon a small mountain, and Fredricksburg was a dot on the horizon still, but it _was _within eyeshot. Damn this all to hell if that didn't mean something.

"Don't say that too loudly, sir. A reporter might be hiding in a bush." Sherman laughed at that as he stood down from his lookout point and climbed back into his jeep.

"I swear, if those leaches stick around here much longer I'll put out an order to shoot them on sight." Unfortunately, along with the best soldiers the world had ever seen, came the best reporters to ever hold a paper and pen. It had been all he could do to with strain himself for putting a bullet in the head of one earlier that week.

"_Major General Sherman! Is it true that you plan on marching all the way down to Fredricksburg with only the troops you have with you?" Sherman rolled his eyes, nodding his head at the eager investigator. _

"_That's correct. With the causalities we've taken, I've estimated that I have no need for additional reinforcements. Though, more wouldn't be looked down upon." The kid laughed at Sherman's purposefully poor joke, irritating the man even more. _

"_What about supplies? How do you expect to manage to lead an army when your troops don't have proper nutrition?" Proper nutrition? What the hell was this guy talking about? _

"_I don't understand the question. The army has done a superb job of supplying my men with the rations they need, and all the other resources that _

_we have required." The slight bodied reporter stared at him for a moment before replying._

"_Don't you know? Armstrong's forces have been overrun, and your supply lines have been broken." The first thing that stuck out to Sherman was the blatantly obvious mistake woven into his words. Hakuro was the one who was in charge of forces defending the lines, not Armstrong. Armstrong was… well he had no idea where Armstrong was. But she wasn't leading any troops, that was for sure. It was the kind of mistakes he had come to expect from his type_

_Then what he said hit him. It wasn't the shock. He knew that they would break. It was the fact that they were in the public of his forces, and news like that would be a major hit to moral unless properly broken. His hand itched toward his Colt 1911 before he grabbed the man and dragged him inside a closed tent._

"_We're talking in here now. And, no. I'm not worried about that at all. We will manage."_

"_Drachma's forces will be closing in. What do you think about seeing the enemy's forces behind you, as well as in the front?" The scribbling of the man's pen was ticking Sherman off, as well as everything else about the man. Partly to humor him, and mostly to get him off his back, he gave him a line that would surely go into the paper before leaving him._

"_Well, I suppose it will be a better sight than our Army. At least we know they'll be there in the morning."_

Having the media on ones side was an advantage worth putting up with, but sometimes he questioned it was really worth it. The paper pushing pencil necks often seemed like they word make very good target practice.

"Don't worry, sir. I'll screen your meetings from them. They won't get to you unless they go through me first." The Major who was driving the jeep was the result of extensive rejects that Sherman had gone through. He believed in having valuable aides, rather the typical go-getting Lieutenant that his peers tended to put up with. The man was a qualified commander, and Sherman didn't have a problem asking him for advice on personal and, occasionally, professional matters. And, of course, he never minded having to fetch coffee.

"I'll be counting on you." They were approaching their own campsite, and Sherman could see the entirety of his army. It wasn't as large as he would have liked, he admitted to himself. Still manageable, but it would have been nice to have just a few thousand more troops, just a handful more tanks. Their mass hadn't presented a problem as of yet, and the moral _was _at an all time high; the men were drunk with pride and fueled by each victory they claimed. But they were outnumbered at least ten times, when counting all sides. "Andrew? Can I ask you something?"

"Sir?"

"Do you think… Do you think this to be a fool's errand?" His aide got an odd look on his face.

"Sir, I don't think that I should-"

"Humor me, Andrew." The man being addressed paused in thought, keeping half his concentration on the road ahead.

"Well, from my unprofessional opinion, I don't think all the Drachmann troops in the world can stop our Force. Our men are excellent, and your leadership has proven to be nothing but exceptional." Sherman took the compliment in stride. He didn't let his pride swell from it, he didn't want to become over confident, but it was the truth. Dozens of battles, against forces even as large as theirs and they weren't even at half capacity, never even as much as breaking their stride. Though the stream of reinforcements stopped with the supply lines cut, his men were at exceptional strength. "However. I don't think we can survive if we aren't moving."

"What do you mean?" He was fairly sure Andrew was voicing the same concerns as were in his own head, but it helped to hear them out loud, from someone else.

"So far we've been cutting through the countryside, but now we're approaching Fredricksburg. We can take the city, but holding on to it… Well, I don't think we can stand the entirety of Drachma pounding us from all sides in a fixed fortification."

"'Fixed Fortifications are monuments to the stupidity of mankind,'" Sherman quoted from a general fifty years prior. "You're right, of course. If everything works out, however, we shouldn't be occupying Fredricksburg for more than a week. I think we can survive for that long." What went unspoken was that things never went according to plan.

* * *

It was surprisingly easy to make good time cutting through the Drachmann country side, in the small unit they were in. Both Roy and Riza's ROSE units were collaborated for the mission, but in total they didn't even have fifty soldiers. Though, as Roy discovered, that turned out to be more of a boon than a hindrance. The small group required few supplies, and nothing that they couldn't carry themselves. They didn't need any gas, as they had no vehicles to require them at this point. They had ridden along the supply lines as far as they had been able to take them, and opted to march the rest of the way. A small unit as theirs couldn't afford to be detected by a large army, but it wasn't hard to slip under the radar, either.

Much to Riza's disapproval, Roy had tagged along with his men. She had made an effort to convince him that he was the commanding officer, so he should be back at the base, calling the shots from behind ten feet of concrete. A two star General such as he had no place on the battlefield. Unfortunately, he laughed at her and called her out on her effort to keep him out of harm's way. He had claimed that he'd be useless if he was stuck in Briggs, hiding like a "pussy". He was right of course, but Riza was still nervous about him being on the field. One false move would get them all killed, including him. It did, however, keep her on her toes at all times, never taking anything for granted.

"I don't get it. It refers to the object as some kind of super weapon, but then it cuts off, referring to 'The Eastern Project' for further information." Roy had been poring over the East City documents that Martel had given him in their down time, as well as the object that they had been given as their objective. The object was no bigger than a large suitcase, and at first glance was a simple black box. Given closer inspection, however, the box was covered in elaborate alchemical symbols, of which Roy couldn't heads or tails out of, and Riza hadn't even attempted to.

The truth was that she didn't really care what that box was. There job was march into Amestrian occupied Fredricksburg and hand the object over to Major General Sherman. Roy, on the other hand, felt it important to know everything about anything.

"Just give it a rest, Roy. Is it really that important?"

"You make a good point. Want to find a tree to go fuck behind?" His tone was taunting and his eyes never left the files he was concentrating on. "No? I didn't think so. And how many times have you cleaned that rifle of yours?"

"Three?" she said darkly, not quite knowing where this was going.

"Hmm. I would have thought that it would have been clean by now." He started to flip through the pages, the same look of unanticipated boredom in his eyes.

"It is. I'm just doing it to keep busy at this point."

"Exactly. You keep busy your ways, I'll keep busy mine." Ah. Well, he had a point, she thought as she slid the barrel back into place. Riza's attention was shifted in an instant from her rifle to muffled footsteps approaching the camp. Probably just the changing of the night guard, but it didn't make Riza any less cautious. Silently, she picked up an AK she had finished cleaning and pointed the muzzle to the sound.

"Frick, Colonel. Hold your fire." The voice of Gunny Millet came from the body that it belonged to in its harsh growl. "Jeez, I feel like I'm going to get my face blown off every time a get close to the two of you."

_Maybe if Roy would get his nose out his reports, I wouldn't have to be so uptight_, she thought bitterly.

"What are you doing here, Sergeant?"

"I just got word from Hathcock." Riza's eyes widened. That was good news, and she could see that even through the cramps she was experiencing. Hathcock had been scouting ahead with the intention of notifying them when the Presidential Guard Expeditionary Force came into view. He had been gone for a good amount of time, but if he could see them, they could probably make to the force within two weeks.

"How far are they?"

"Two hundred clicks or so."

They could make that in a week. It would be intense, but they could do it. Given that Fredricksburg wasn't more than thirty clicks on top of that, it wouldn't be too hard to arrive in time.

"Thank you, Sergeant. You are dismissed." As the man left, Riza turned to her man. "Roy, did you even hear any of that?" He looked up and starred at her blankly.

"Huh?"

"Damnit, Roy, show some professionalism. We're hauling ass starting tomorrow and on, so you need to get rest." Roy nodded his head picked himself off the ground. Picking everything up, he streached and disappeared inside their tent. Riza wasn't too far behind him.

* * *

"Are you prepared to relinquish everything you have, including the life of yourself and the lives of your loved ones, to the demands of the motherland?" It was surprisingly hard to think when one had a pistol pressed against his temple. Survival instincts came alive, and the only thing Serge could concentrate on was getting the metal away from him. He would have anything at that point, weather he meant it or not.

"Even my very soul." The words worked, and the gun was lowered. In actuality, Serge was speaking honestly. He had already made the decision to gun down his loved ones if the situation called for it, and he would make a similar self sacrifice, despite his aforementioned survival instincts if it meant helping Mother Drachma. Here, with the slapped together partisan groups, he would probably end up doing just that.

"Welcome to my outfit, comrade." Serge was embraced in a brotherly hug by the Colonel in front of him, and hugged him back.

Serge's group of escaped POWs was led though the camp by the Colonel and brought to a cluster of tents that Serge assumed was Battalion Headquarters. When they arrived in the open gazebo in the center, the Colonel sat them down and looked at Serge, who was the obvious leader of the group. "So. Tell me what happened, Comrades."

It took them an hour or two to orate the story in full, from start to finish. They left nothing out, including the even the small, seemingly unimportant details. It was an interesting feeling. It gave each of them the first good look at their situation, and a few of them were realizing for the first time everything they had been through. The pasts months had been living from day to day, even hour to hour.

Throughout the telling the colonel's eyes danced around, and his brow raised and lowered. At times he let out a hearty laugh. It made them feel closer to civilization, and it removed large burdens form their backs.

"Impressive, all of you. I'm proud to have such men as you in my outfit, not to mention professionals. I'm giving each of you battlefield commissions. Each of you no hold the rank of second lieutenant, and you, Serge Gurko, are being commissioned into first lieutenant. Perhaps you can all bring some order to this place." Each of them nodded in acceptance.

"Sir? If I may ask, what are we doing here, as a unit?" The colonel looked each of them in the eyes solemnly.

"The Amestrian dogs are marching on our Motherland's capital. We will meet them alongside every other self respecting Drachmann. They plan on bringing our nation to its knees, comrades, but they will succeed only in feeling the wrath of our people."

**One chapter left. It's all going down. I'm not sure how pleased I am with this one, but I do like a lot of it, so I have that going for me, right? Review, please. You'll be my bestest friend…**


	22. The Black Box

**(Please Read the Author's notes. Once again, I refrained from ramblings about irrelevancies) **

**All I have to say, really, is that now that this is THE END, I'd really appreciate it (please please please) if you'd drop a review. I've put a shit ton of effort in it, and if you've stuck with it up to here, than you must at least **_**kindof**_** like it, and if not, and you've just been barring your teeth through it, I'd like to know that even more. Please, I really want to know you honest opinion, no matter how negative, no matter how positive, and no matter neutral it is. Even if it's "Liked the Story!", or "Thought the story was alright.", or "Liked the story until act X" or "Liked everything BUT" or whatever, I want to hear it. Please. This is my last chance to hear it.**

**Incidentally, here is The Walrus's three step program to entertain thyself: STEP 1.) Enter "****Halitosis bomb" into Google. STEP 2.) Click on link that takes you to Wikipedia. STEP 3.) Proceed to laugh your ass off. Seriously, the US Air Force (Chair Force) never ceases to amaze me.**

**Ye, be warned, this one's a doozy.**

"You know what I'm going to do when I get home?" Major General Sherman, ARPG, asked. A fat cigar halfway smoked hung out of his mouth.

"What, sir?"

"First, I'm going to be promoted." Sherman exhaled a breath of ash. The white smog mixing and mingling with the similar substance that the wind stole from the battle being waged not a mile away from him. "Then, I'm going to take all my Grandchildren, put them in my big military issue Land Cruiser, and drive them down to Eddie's Frozen Custard to buy them each an ice cream cone." The statement hung like the contradiction that it was, among the death and bloodshed that his men were taking part of. A statement of life. Happiness. It seemed to only accentuate the violence.

Sherman was in a good mood. One could tell that by the pleased look in his eyes and mouth, and the comfortably casual placement of his arms. Surrounding his men on all sides was a force massive enough to swallow his army whole, but that was several days off, and out of mind. Perhaps even a week. The focus today was the overwhelming victory that would put his name in the history books for years to come. There was something truly beautiful about watching the synchronized tank maneuvers, artillery strikes, and infantry charges that routed the token forces that defended the Capital City. It was stimulating to know that the tactics used were of his own creation.

"You have grandchildren, sir?" his aide asked, politely.

"Three by next month," he said proudly. "Four if there twins."

In total it took about seven hours for the Amestrians to penetrate to Drachmann lines. A bit shorter than expected, but the job was nowhere near done. The remaining Drachmann forces had retreated into the walls of their city, but their battle was hopeless. Their numbers were so low that they would hardly pose a threat outside of a pest.

The city, as he entered it, was one of the most beautiful populated areas in the world. This was not his first time in Fredricksburg. The last time he had been there it had been unmarred of the weapons of war, many, many years ago. It pained him to see the pieces of architecture, many that were considered masterpieces, with gaping holes in their structures. Peace suited this city.

He was tossed around in his jeep unexpectedly as the car swerved. The gaping shell holes they had created in their bombardment left the roads a general hazard. They were headed for the city center, where the Palace of the Holy Tsar was located.

This was the second time in history that the city had been overrun, the last time occurring about two thousand years prior, long before the formation of his country, Xerxes and Drachma had waged war for over sixty years before Xerxes had been the first to march on this city. Toward the end of the sixty year war, however, both the Emperor of Xerxes and the Holy Tsar had died equally unexpected deaths. The newly appointed Emperor and Tsar had been childhood friends and both loathed the war. They deemed the simultaneous death of their predecessors an act of God before forging peace on the grounds in front of the Palace of the Holy Tsar.

Monuments of Peace were built on the very spot of the signing, in an attempt to remind the people of the nations of the pointless war. Sherman, however, believed they had a more practical purpose. The costumes of the country demanded that the Emperor stay inside the city in the case of enemy occupation. It was an old and often disregarded piece of Drachmann War Courtesy, and most people assumed that the country would ignore it in the modern day. Sherman believed otherwise.

Sherman knew Drachma to be a place of heavy traditions and a stout belief in God. The law had supposedly originated from their god, so he was fairly sure that they would uphold it. If it wasn't the case, it was entirely possible that their campaign would be rendered as useless. At the same time, he doubted that the Tsar would be residing in the Palace; residing in the city did not mean that the Tsar had to still be in the palace. He suspected the _Trinity of Peace_ to be place of concealment. It was more than a hunch. Sherman had looked over the layout prints of the _Trinity of Peace_ himself, along with the aid of several of the countries architects, and had found massive inconsistencies in their structure.

"Shit," his aid whispered to himself under his breath. He eased the jeep to a slow halt.

"What is it, Andrew?" Sherman asked, amused at his slight vulgarity.

"Roadblock." Andrew pointed to a building that had been knocked down, blocking their path. "We'll have to proceed on foot, sir."

"How much further do we have?"

"Not too much. We can get to the city center within an hour at a reasonable pace. It would take a lot longer to bulldoze this." Sherman sighed. It wasn't just about time constrictions. Walking the streets of a bombed out city still partially occupied by the enemy was a security nightmare.

"Well then, we'll hoof it. It won't hurt me to get a little exercise." That statement nearly proved itself wrong thirty minutes later.

Sherman had a lot of armor on. He felt it to be a bit over the top, and weightier than he would have liked. He and three of his General Staff had an escort of thirty or so guards, each one of them Force Royal; the elite of the elite. Though the other three Generals wore nothing but their combat grays, the Master Gunnery Sergeant of the Force Royal Company hadn't allowed him to remove the Helmet and heavy vest.

"I'm the fucking General here," he had responded.

"And I'm the 'fucking' man in charge of your security. Now if you want to cooperate, then I won't be forced to embarrass you in front of your friends." The confidence and bluntness of the statement had shocked Sherman. He briefly considered telling him where he could shove it, but thought better of when he saw the "guns" of the Master Guns. His arms were the size of tree trunks. Sherman could tell by the demeanor of the Sergeant that he wouldn't hesitate to use them on him, if it meant carrying out his duty to protect him. Sherman kept the armor on.

Brig. General Huey was teasing him on the ridiculousness of his "getup." The jokes he made sent snickers through the other two, and server to put Sherman in a grumpy mood. "You're never going to need that, which is the funniest thing about it. Even if the Popovs are stupid enough to attack us, these men would have them killed before they had a chance to get a shot off."

Huey's statement was extremely ironic as his head exploded in a cloud of pink mist right after it came out of his mouth. Suddenly Sherman was very grateful for the helmet strapped to his head.

"Sniper!"

Sherman vaguely registered the shouted statement as he felt himself slammed forcefully to the ground. _I'm getting too old for this. _The soldiers scattered from the street. They dragged him off to the side of the road where he would be out of the line of fire.

_BAM._

Another soldier fell. The buildings around them offered infinite possibilities for a sniper's nest. Where was he? How many were there? How long would they be pinned down? Judging from the sound of the gunshot, they weren't too far off. The spacing of the shots indicated that the sniper was using a bolt gun, most likely a Mosin Nagant. He had taken his time to ensure perfect headshots. A professional? Perhaps. In an urbanized area like this it would be somewhat unusual for a civilian to be hunting enough to merit shots like that.

The entire unit of guards was pressed to either side of street. Nobody wanted to move. The Master Gunnery Sergeant of the unit was on the other side, ordering around his men quietly.

"Private Quarington!" he shouted suddenly. "Do we have radio capabilities?" A soldier on Sherman's side perked up noticeably at the Master Gunny's question. The soldier, who had a long wire sticking out of his back, fiddled with something briefly.

"Yes sir, we do!"

"Get the artillery on the line!"

The private, who Sherman identified as the radio man, removed his pack. He then pulled the wire up until it was about twice the length it had been previously. After dialing the lines, he brought the receiver to his face and spoke into it briefly.

"Artillery is standing by, Master Guns!"

"Give coordinates: North on city block 34 Romeo Whiskey!"

The private repeated the information into the combat line and paused before responding vocally across the street.

"We're too close for their support, sir! They can't do shit!"

"Fuck!" Sherman couldn't have agreed more with the man. Standing up, the Major General brushed the dirt on his uniform off. His arm hurt like bitch. The helmet and flack vest was uncomfortable as hell. He had no weapon but the worthless pistol strapped to his ass. More than anything, Sherman felt the thrill and the fear of being in combat for the first time in over fifteen years. And he loved it.

The first thing he did was get a rifle. He wasn't totally familiar with the guns his soldiers were using. While officially they were assigned bolt action Mauser Kar98s and the semi/full auto Mp44 Sturmgewehrs, the Amestrians found that their enemies carried rifles much better than the ones they had. The Drachmann AK47s never jammed. They were fully automatic. He could manage to adjust.

"Private. Hand me your weapon." The private he was addressing looked at him timidly. It struck Sherman at that point that he was a Major General addressing an E-2 private. The boy was intimidated, and understandably so. Grinning to himself he motioned with his hand to remind the man he was talking to. His eyes widened in response and he hurriedly shoved his rifle into Sherman's hands. "Radio man, call for reinforcements: a mortar team and an armored escort, and a med-evac. Do you copy?"

"Sir!" the private responded. Sherman nodded and heard another gunshot coming from the sniper. At the sound of struggling, he turned to the disturbance. Three men were struggling to hold back a guardsmen who was trying to get into the street.

"Calm down, Jesse! It's not worth getting you head blown in two." Curious, Sherman investigated further.

After a brief interrogation, Sherman discovered that the man was trying to get to his brother. His brother, who lay in the middle of the street. It was then that he heard the one of the two bodies elicit a moan of pain. At the new bit of information, a shot of adrenaline surged through Sherman's veins. They had taken one of his Generals. They had taken one of his friends. He had though they had taken one of his men. Now that he knew otherwise, he would be damned if he was going to let them.

More bravely than a general should have been, Sherman stepped to the edge of the building that was shielding him. In his day he had taken on threats ten times worse than this. This was a cakewalk. Ignoring protests made from the Master Gunny on the other side, he gripped his assault rifle and clicked the firing lever to "single".

_He was standing in the trenches, palms sweaty on his bayonettted bolt rifle. sound of machine gun fire could be heard in the distance. The hill they were taking was untakeable . So of course it fell to the Guard to get the job done. Oohrah. _

"_Come on men!" his Gunny yelled. "Do you want to live forever?!" Hell no._

_Over the top. Dashing through no-man's land. Sniper takes the man beside him. No fear, that is for inside the trenches. The raa-ta-ta-ta-ta of machine gun fire starts to sound, but is quickly silenced by a grenade. Barbed wire is already cut, but men beside him are being picked off by small arms. No bother. Further and further until he's at the enemy trench, and into the avenues. Raising his rifle for a bayonet stab, he sees his target. His blood is pumping so fast that it seems an eternity for the man to look up at his assailant. _

_The wood of the rifle and steel of the knife have on intent as they hurl themselves at the enemy: kill._

Sherman took swung outside of the building into the line of fire with the intent of locating the exact position of the sniper. He movement in a window. The instant he had him located, Sherman whipped back into safety. Every millisecond he was exposed was another millisecond that could get him killed. He exhaled and waited for five minutes for the sniper to go back to scanning.

_Come on, soldier._ _Do you want to live forever?_ Taking a deep breath, he turned the corner once again, weapon poised to shoot. He could see the sniper. His finger squeezed.

_Bang._

With his naked eye he could see the snipers head whip back as the bullet tore through his skull.

"Sniper down!" he shouted. "Master Gunnery Sergeant, take over!" The leader sprang his unit to action immediately, rushing to the buildings that the sniper had previously resided in and separating into fire-teams to peel the complex apart in the most efficient way possible. For Sherman, the fight was over. _Old man,_ he told himself. _You've still got it._

"You have the plan, Comrades. H-hour's at noon, so I suggest you prepare your men ASAP." Serge nodded his head enthusiastically. The partisan unit he had joined had met up with the bulk of the professional Drachmann Military, but he had already established his position in his unit. Because of that, he and his fellow lieutenants had chosen to stay with the partisans during the siege and assault.

Dubbed as the Python Plan, the retaking of their own capital was made up of two central directives. The Strike and the Bind. The first goal was to throw a shock force into the Amestrian lines. The majority of their infantry and mechanized cavalry/armor divisions, the Strike's intent was to hit hard and fast. The Bind would start at the same time, though their engagement wouldn't ensue until later. Artillery, heavy mortars, and the infantry, cavalry, and armor units that didn't participate in the Strike would start to wind around the city. When the bind was in position, the Strike would fall back into the ranks of the Bind. Once surrounded, Sherman and his Presidential Guard would be torn to pieces.

The Amestrians had stricken fear into the men and soldiers of Drachma with their Presidential Guard, but they had also grown arrogant. They had maintained their hold on Fredricksburg for nine days to this point. Meanwhile, the collaborated forces of the Royal Drachmann Military and the partisan groups had amassed together and bided their energies. They now had a force even fifty times the total of the Amestrians. No matter how the Amestrians fought, it would be impossible for them to save themselves once encompassed.

Serge briefed the soldiers in his command with the mission plan, and made sure they understood their parts.

"It's about damn time," a man said loudly when he announced their hour of departure. The surrounding men voiced and nodded their agreement.

"I know you're afraid, men." Serge said, with the confidence of an officer preparing his men for battle. "You don't have to convince yourself that you aren't. There isn't a man in the world that enters the line of fire without fearing for his life. But think: if you are afraid, think about how the bastards down there on our homeland feel!"

"Rah!" his men shouted with wide grins on their faces.

"When you see the enemy, think about cities he has burned! Think of the women he has raped! Think of our Mother Drachma and the hell he has brought to it!"

"Rah! Rah! Rah!"

"But when you see the enemy in your sights, don't think at all. Let your instincts and training pull the trigger. The man you will be looking at is not a man at all. He is a monster. His very birth is his sin, and the only reason you need to repent him of it. Drop him to Hell, for he would not hesitate to do the same to you." Having largely grown up around the culture of Amestris, Serge had a very separate view on them than the average soldier. He knew that what he was saying was horribly distorted. It was propaganda and highly necessary. Of course, that didn't mean he enjoyed it. All he wanted was for his men to not freeze up or worse; receive a guilty conscious.

"You are good men. Perhaps the best I've ever seen. I feel reassured knowing that you are the ones I will be leading into battle. You are dismissed." The men saluted and exited the room, leaving to their personal quarters to prepare themselves. At their departure, Serge began to prepare himself.

Riza had mistaken cramps from the cold mountain environment for PMS. She had been wrong. Finding that out been… an odd feeling. She had already thought she was past due, but at this point she realized that she had skipped it altogether. That, alone, was more a cause for rejoice than depression. Normally Riza wouldn't have been complaining. However, with the sudden vomiting right after she woke up and the woozy feeling that overcame her now and again, the truth seemed to stare her bleakly in the face.

She was pregnant.

_Damn you, Roy, _she thought with a smile. She was glowing in spite of herself. It wasn't that she didn't want children and it certainly wasn't that she didn't want Roy's children. It was that she didn't want to carry a child, unborn or not, onto the battlefield. She also felt sick as hell. And even with everything that was wrong, so much more seemed right. She was pregnant. And she was hungry.

"Do you think they have any pickles?" she asked Roy quietly.

"What?" He was very obviously caught off guard. She blushed, realizing exactly what she said, and how ridiculous it sounded in their situation.

She, Roy, Felix, their senior NCOs, and Captain Paul Enola were walking through the halls of the Palace of the Holy Emperor, escorted by a pair of Sherman's personal guard. Having just arrived in Fredricksburg, they had an appointment with the Major General. The bulk of their unit was hauling the black box into the city limits. With how heavy it was, it was at the least a three man job. The rest provided fire support. "Are you feeling alright, Colonel? You've been off lately."

"I'm fine." She had already decided to not break the news to him until they were at least done with the mission. Whether he would take it well she wasn't sure, but he would have to own up to it.

Roy looked at her doubtfully but ultimately let it go. As they arrived at the Emperor's Grand Quarters, they were greeted by a Major in a combat conditioned grey uniform. Over his shoulder was slung an AK47 with its banana clip magazine sticking out of the bottom. Bananas. Riza felt her stomach growl.

"Maj. General Mustang?" The man seemed worn out. Everyone did around here. She doubted they saw it themselves, but they reminded her of her old unit in Ishbal. There was no longer that military arrogance in their step. They had bags around their eyes, either from lack of rest or a guilty conscious. Roy shook the hand offered by the Major. "I'm afraid you've caught the General in a meeting with the Drachmann Tsar," he said monotonously.

"Is it a problem?"

"No, not at all. If you'll wait here a moment," he said before walking into the massive intricate doors. Five seconds later the doors opened and the four of them entered. The room was quite large. Ornate furniture was scattered throughout the room, two chairs being occupied. A large window covered by blinds was imprinting in the wall at the very back.

"See, your Holiness? Our guests have arrived." The man speaking had two silver stars on his collar and shoulder straps. His grey hair sat atop his gray eyes. His mouth was thin and wide, almost cutting his face in half. He also carried an AK47. The other man wore a plain white robe. Roy, I will not soon forget the pleasure of meeting you. You are a man of action. I like that. And Olivier! Erwin speaks very highly of you." As they shook hands, Riza pondered how this man felt so energetic. It was like he was miles away from all the men they had come across until now. "Now, if you don't mind, we don't have much time. Could we get straight to business?"

"I think that would be best," Roy responded.

"Excellent. Now, I'm assuming you brought 'the Package'?"

"I have my men bringing it into the city right now."

"And I'm assuming it's functioning, Captain Enola." His voice had dropped its lightness and his eyes were sharp, like a knife.

"Yes sir, it is. It'll take two hours to activate, but it's set with an hour's activation time." Sherman's eyes narrowed even further when he heard this. He turned to go to the back of the room and whipped open the blinds to the window.

The sight that greeted them looked like something that one would see in a painting. The Drachmann forces were spread out in front of them, and larger than she had ever seen. They were close enough to strike on a whim. "They're attacking at noon, Captain. You'd better hope it takes a lot less than two hours to set up." They carelessness had evaporated from Sherman's voice, along with the mental state that went with it. This man was just as worn out as the rest of them. He just had more experience hiding it.

"You're all going to die," spoke the Tsar, amusedly. His voice punctuated each word exact pronunciation.

"I assure you we won't, your Holiness. We're leaving this city and you're coming with us." His patience was clearly breaking. "Now, gentlemen, I need you to bring the Package to this spot and work on getting it operating right away. If you fail then this whole campaign will be deemed as useless. All of those dead soldiers will have died for nothing, and Drachma will not have looked kindly at our invasion. Even if it was 'their fault'."

"Why this spot?" Roy asked.

"This is the exact center of the city." The way he said made it sound like the most obvious thing in the world. When Roy's face stayed blank, Sherman's face lit with understanding. "You don't know what our little package does, do you?" Roy shook his head. "Well then, you're in for a treat. Dismissed."

Pushing through the front lines was supposed to have been the hardest thing about the Strike. Much like the forward armor on a tank, between the Strike force and the city was the concentrated mass of the Amestrian Royal Presidential Guard. Cutting through it, however, had only taken the better part of an hour. There were some things that hadn't made much sense. The most glaring problem had been the Amestrian's use of their artillery. Rather that hurling shells at their main force, the Amestrians had created a wall of sorts on the outskirts of the city. There were no units in the area they had shelled. It had stalled the movement of the Bind units, but above that it seemesd to have been of no consequence.

The other issue Serge had, the piece of the puzzle that didn't seem to fit, was that it had been far too easy. Or perhaps a better way to put it was that it hadn't been difficult enough, since easy wouldn't have been the way to describe it. The Amestrian Guardsmen fought twice as bravely and ten times as skillfully as his own soldiers. Not only were they professionals, but they were the elite. Each of them had a mentality like a starved bulldog. When they found a piece of meat to chew on they didn't do so politely. They tore it apart. The defending force however, did not stay around for very long.

About forty five minutes into the fight, as soon as the tide of advantage start to turn toward the Drachmanns, the Amestrian force had quickly fallen back toward the city. That wasn't what the plan was. Something didn't seem quite right.

In reality, the hardest part of the strike was moving through the city. The enemy seemed to have been dug in. The artillery was still sounding. With every street came another machine gun nest. Both they had come to fear more than the devil in a short time. The Amestrian light machine gun was the MG42. They called them "buzz saws". When they sounded, it was hard to differentiate the sound of individual shots. It sounded more like a continual sound.

The snipers were only a problem when going down the main streets. Because of that they had to travel through the complex web of the boulevards and avenues. It added time to the invasion, but taking ones time was better than having his whole team get picked off one by one.

"You wanna go first, Lieutenant?" The man who was asking motioned to the open expanse of road. Crossing streets was the worst part of the urban combat. Every crossing was a game Revolver Routette. He was the leader, however, so he needed to show mental strength in front of his men. He really didn't want to cross.

"Of course, comrade private. Keep me covered." Serge pressed himself up against the wall. He took a quick peek around the corner before sprinting across as fast as he could. Running for his life.

Half way there. The end seemed very far away. Closer. Almost there. Safe! Turning around to his other men he motioned for them to start coming over. The next man came dashing across, just as fast as he. About five feet in, his foot his a piece of rubble.

"Mother Fucker!" He quickly got to his feet and ran the west of the way, even more recklessly than the first stretch. The third came through. And the fourth. And the fifth. None slowed down. Each one of them knew that the enemy could be waiting.

"Shit," one man said. "I fucking hate this." The served as scouts for the rest of the unit. After five people, the street was declared as "clear" and the rest came across at once.

Serge whistled at the other twenty men and waved them across.

"It's set, General." Enola smacked the large black box with his hands and stood up. Roy had spent more than an hour watching the man activate various alchemical circles and reading texts on the box. He had asked why Enola if he had ever tried to make State, but Enola had laughed. "I'm not an expert alchemist by any means. My knowledge of the science is very, very basic. All of this is already predetermined. I'm simply activating it."

"Why does it take so long to activate, then? Shouldn't there be one central circle rather than all of these extra ones?" Roy had been getting nervous at that point. He had been looking out the large window of the chambers almost constantly. The Drachmanns had broken their lines and were already invading the city.

"There is a central circle. Only one of these activates the device. Everything else is simply precautions."

It had taken another thirty minutes for Enola to finish, but the fortified walls of Fredricksburg had held back the Drachmanns better than Roy had hoped for. Even so, they were getting dangerously close.

"We're leaving, Captain." Enola started to object. "If we stay any longer, we're dead. You said this was ready, and we don't have the time to stick around." The captain looked at him for a moment and nodded his head. They both exited the room. Directly outside was the rest of ROSE, save for his personal aide. "We're ready, Hawkeye. Where's Lt. Lancaster?"

" 1328 4th street," she responded.

"Damnit. Hawkeye, Kellogg, Hathcock, you're with me. Millit, you take the rest and get Enola to Sherman."

Millit yessir'd and started leading the men his men to the Southern exit of the palace.

"Sir, why isn't Lt. Lancaster with us?" Riza asked while running through the halls of the palace.

"Lancaster grew up in Drachma. She has a special affection for the people here, and she's been feeling horribly about what we've done here. This is her way finding retribution." _Even if it means getting our asses killed,_ he didn't say.

"But what exactly is she doing?" They were making good progress through the elaborate hall system.

"Helping the families that chose to stay."

Hathcock whistled.

"Damn, talk about commitment. It's fuckers like her that encourage the cunts who don't evacuate the warzone. Sure makes our job a hell of a lot more difficult."

"And it's 'fuckers' like you, Charlie, that cause the need for 'fuckers' like her. War effects more than just its combatants, Hathcock. These people never asked for us to invade their homes," Felix retorted. He was in the lead by quite distance, scouting out the area ahead.

"Says the man who laughed when he tore off a guys arm with an MG42. I may not look at the whole picture, but I'm also not the one kills with a knife because I like to feel people die." The four of them arrived at entrance and lined up on the door.

"Just because I'm forced to kill doesn't mean I can't enjoy it."

"You're a sick fuck." Felix grinned at the "insult". He smashed the door with the butt of his shotgun. The door swung open to reveal a war. The Drachmanns had advanced through the city enough to come into direct combat with the bulk of the tail end of the Guard. They were holding the city down with the sole intent of protecting Roy and his men. "Mother of all fuckers," Hathcock breathed. Roy was suddenly very thankful he had ordered Lancaster to stay within one block of the Palace.

"Fourth street!" he shouted, pointing to the sign. "Find 1328." Within a minute they had the house located. Kellogg kicked the door down rather than taking their precious time to knock. Upon entering they saw a woman in a blue uniform standing protectively over a family of four. "Lancaster," Roy half shouted. "We're leaving." He had already half started to turn outside of the house.

"No." Roy froze.

"Lieutenant, that is an order. Let's go."

"I said no sir. I can't leave these people unprotected." _Goddamnit_, Roy thought.

"That's insubordination on the battlefield, soldier. I could shoot you right here and now."

"Then do it." Not only did she sound like Riza, but she had the same resilience. Roy could tell that he could do nothing to get her to budge. He nodded and half smiled in acceptance.

"Very well, Ms. Lancaster. You're on your own." He exited the house as fast as he entered it.

"Where's Lancaster?" Riza asked. He looked at her for a moment.

"Dead," he said simply. She nodded and the four of them started for the field officer.

When they found him he was barking orders athis men from behind a piece of cover before popping up to take a shot every once in a while himself. "Colonel. We're ready to-" Roy was cut off by a bullet that whizzed by his ear. Turning quickly, he didn't put on his gloves. Instead he raised the .45 that he held and pulled the trigger. He used the circle that was still faintly carved into his hand and the heat form the bullet. The array was himself. Flames erupted from the gun, utilizing the heavily saturated air, and flooded the area in front of them. The shots stopped sounding.

"Damn, General, where the hell were you before?"

"Doing much more important things. It's time to sound the retreat bell." The Colonel grinned at Roy's words.

"Guardsmen don't retreat, Major General. We just attack in a different direction." He raised his head in the air. "FALLBACK, MEN!" He took a flare gun and shot it into the air. "Let's move."

"I must say, I'll be glad to be out of this wretched country," Sherman said sardonically. The man beside him responded in kind.

"I'll be glad when you're out of my country as well." Sherman laughed at the Tsars remark. It had been over a half-hour before the retreat flare had been shot, which meant soon the Tsar beside him would be in a very different mood. The two were standing on the side of the mountain, watching the events of the past two hours unfold like a game board. The Tsar was in an amusedly arrogant mood. He had just seen his army seize his capital city back, and thus render the Amestrians in his country as useless. Or, that's what he believed.

"I'm sure you will be, my friend."

"I hope you understand, Mr. Sherman, that I do not hold anything against you." The comment took Sherman off guard. "You are a soldier; a general even. You are simply serving your country. I understand that. But I respect you as man. It's men like you that I would have leading my army." What the Tsar said didn't brighten Sherman's mood like it should have. It forced him to face a harsh reality: what he was about to do was inhumane. He had also come to respect the man beside him, just as he had him.

By the end of the day Sherman doubted that respect that the Tsar held for him would still be intact.

"War is hell, Tsar Kita. It truly is." Sherman couldn't manage the ironic smile he would have liked.

This may have been the end of the war.

The thought occurred to Serge with astounding clarity. They stood on his home city, victorious. The Amestrians were defeated and there was no hope for them. Their force was still in tack, many miles now from Fredricksburg, but they could not oppose the Drachmann Combined Army. They had won.

"RAH! RAH! RAH!" Serge shouted enthusiastically in the air. The shouts had been a constant. Victory was like a drug, and it affected everyone.

"Comrade Gurko!" Serge turned to the man who was walking toward him. It was his Colonel. The two of them embraced rather than saluted. "Will you join me for a drink? The vodka is better here than anywhere else in the world!"

"I know it is, comrade Colonel, for I grew up here! But, alas I cannot. I have something else I need to attend to."

"Pity, comrade. Well, best of luck."

Serge's father had vowed that nothing save for the very grips of death would separate him from his home. Serge needed to see for himself if that prophesy had come true.

He knew the walk to his house by heart. Save for the rubble the Amestrians had created, he could have walked there with his eyes closed. 1328, 4th street.

When he got to the entrance, he couldn't help but get discouraged. A street near his old house had been almost completely burned to the ground, but it hadn't bled over. The door to his house, however, was broken, indicating that someone had entered forcefully. _Damn._ He ran through the house until he saw his family in their family room. They were all in one piece. The five of them stared at each other for a moment before he heard a voice call out to him.

"Serge…" He knew that voice. Spinning around as to be sure of himself, the image of his fiancé came into his view.

"Sophie."

"You picked one hell of a woman, boy. She mouthed off to a general to stay with us. Even when he threatened to shoot her," his father cackled. Serge didn't register his words. All he saw was his friend, lover, and soon-to-be wife. The two of them moved to each other and embraced.

They stared into each other's eyes and souls before closing the distance between their lips.

At the beautiful contact, their world seemed to explode in pure white light.

Roy and his group hadn't quite made it where Sherman was located when the explosion happened. There was a flash of white light and a sound unlike anything Roy had ever heard before. Their viewpoint made it even more horrifying.

The explosion looked as if it had torn the very fabric of space along with it. It encompassed the entirety of the city, funneling up into a thick stalk and bursting out at the top in a bulbous manner. It looked rather like a mushroom. Roy knew that nobody in the city could have survived it.

It all made sense to him now, actually. The entirety of the Amestrian campaign was about getting to the city of the Tsar as fast as possible so as to be able to take it. Once in the city, they never planned on holding onto it. Instead they would lure the, by this time, massive Drachmann forces into the city and place them in a drunken stupor. They never intended on keeping the city, because they always intended on completely and utterly destroying it. No living thing could live through a release of nuclear fusion. Fredricksburg was an unusually flat city, so placed at the city center, there had been no resistance.

Thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, dead. In the blink of an eye.

"I finally earn back my eyes to see this?" he asked the world. He felt disgusted. At his country, at his science, at himself. He had contributed to this. He was responsible. "I'm abandoning my cause. I don't want anything to do with a country that would do resort to _this_."

"Sir, you can't do that," his Riza declared.

"Will you shoot me, Hawkeye? Please, feel free." He felt her gun against his head. He turned around to meet her eyes. "Please," he begged. "Pull the trigger." They stood there for a full minute, neither moving. And then the steel in Riza's eyes melted. "Pull the trigger, Hawkeye," he ordered. She lumped to the ground. "No? I understand. I need to earn my passing."

"Please, sir…"

"No." He took his hat off and threw it to the ground. "I'm resigning my commission. If you wish to follow me, I won't stop you." Roy turned on his heels and started to walk down the mountain.

"Roy, I'm pregnant," she half whispered. He stopped.

"What?" She tried to speak louder.

"Roy, I'm-"

_BANG._

Roy Mustang's head lashed back and exploded in a cloud of pink mist. He instantly dropped to the ground, dead.

Riza was horrified.

Her head whipped in the direction of the noise, and Felix Kellogg came into her vision pistol in hand.

"I had orders to kill Roy Mustang on sight the second he defected. Much like you, Colonel Hawkeye." Riza found it impossible to respond to Felix's statement. "I also have orders to kill Olivier Armstrong on site if she, too, defects. I suggest you do not, Lt. General." She was unable to speak. All she could do was watch as Charles Hathcock cocked his mauser and brought it's muzzle to the head of Felix Kellogg. If the world hadn't been moving so slowly, she wouldn't have seen Kellogg grab the rifle out of its owners hands, twist it around, and unload the chambered round into Hathcock's chin. He, too fell to the ground, dead.

Her body and mind could not handle reality any longer. Her stomach emptied itself on the ground in front of her, and she collapsed, blacking out.

_**Review**_


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